


The Other Half of the Universe

by HerWingsofGlass



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon Backstory, Coming of Age, F/F, Friendship, Lesbian Character, Long-Term Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Pre-Price of Salt, Romance, Slash, friends to lovers to friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 91,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerWingsofGlass/pseuds/HerWingsofGlass
Summary: "Carol let her head fall back against the wall and her eyes close to the world. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky and landed on her face. They disappeared almost instantly, lingering just long enough to dot her skin before melting away. Abby wondered at the sight of her—posed there like a marble statue, her cheeks growing a light blush from the cold. Carol exhaled a long, wilted sigh. “I am so tired of this shit,” she murmured after a moment.Abby watched her. “’This shit’?”Carol opened her eyes, glanced at Abby. “Life,” she muttered. Her voice was pebbled—smooth and rough at the same time. She sighed again. “The big things. Of course. And the little things.” She quirked her eyebrows. “Like crumpled cigarettes.” "...A prequel to The Price of Salt, following Abby and Carol's relationship from childhood to Carol's relationship with Therese.
Relationships: Carol Aird & Abby Gerhard, Carol Aird & Harge Aird, Carol Aird & Rindy Aird, Carol Aird & Therese Belivet, Carol Aird/Abby Gerhard
Comments: 166
Kudos: 82





	1. In the Beginning...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning, they were just children. But what is “just children,” anyway? They loved each other even then, didn’t they? In a way…

_In the beginning, they were just children. But what is “just children,” anyway? They loved each other even then, didn’t they? In a way…_

* * *

Abigail Gerhard was a problem child. That was what they told her, at any rate. Her mother and her father. Margaret often closed her eyes to Abby’s antics, breathing out her impatience in a stream of cigarette smoke. She would shake her head, stare off into the air, and beg God in heaven—or, if he were unavailable, the nanny—to please come and take care of her daughter. 

Abby’s father favored swearing. And laughter. He was always more charmed by his daughter, more willing to let her energy fly free. 

William could hardly say no to Abby. From the moment she began to form words, he started filling her room with books, maps, and culture. He encouraged her impertinent questions, and—to the chagrin of her mother—her boisterous opinions. To a point, of course. William knew there were limits. It was all well and good that little Abby play at adventure and exploration in the safety of their home, their neighborhood. It was another thing entirely for the world to take in Abby Gerhard in all her whirling bluster. They wouldn’t know what do to with her. 

At the age of six, Abby was what her family would call “precocious.” She would spend hours each day out on the grounds, swinging tree branches at invisible assailants. A knight from the storybooks, she would vanquish bushes, shadows—anything that dared to rear its imaginary head. On those afternoons, Abby was invincible. The endless stretch of time lay out in front of her, playfully beckoning her forward. 

And so on she went. Gleefully. She would race across the grass, tumble to the ground—not caring one whit that her dress was stained or torn. All she cared for was running, breathing, laughing. 

Margaret did worry. 

Little girls were always impish. Little monsters careening through space. But they evened out eventually. She knew this. She reminded herself of it daily. But Abby showed no signs of evening out anytime soon. Instead, she quickened. Darted. Ran. Sped along at her own whim. And William merely indulged her. He saw no harm in the girl getting some exercise. But William did not think of the future like Margaret did. Margaret knew that Abby was off to school soon, that she’d be in classes with other girls her age. Other girls did not act like Abby acted. They would be cruel. They would rip the freedom from her arms, her heart, her voice. They would break her to reshape her. 

It was a necessary cruelty, of course. One could only get by in the world if one was built to walk its streets. And if you weren’t born so… well, one had to make do somehow. Still, it troubled her. She remembered being wild. It was a faint memory now, but it was still there in the back of her mind. She remembered, too, how quickly she’d learned a different way, a tamer way of being. 

* * *

Things changed, of course, when the Kent family moved in not too far away from them. The Kents—Virginia and Henry and their two young daughters—had relocated from Washington state. They were a respectable family. Not the most well-connected, social speaking, but they had their merits. They had taste, at the very least. The husband worked in banking, a middling position that was looking up. The wife found a place quickly among the ladies at the local Daughters of the American Revolution chapter. Overall, Margaret liked them quite a lot. 

The daughters were of a quiet sort. Well-behaved. Meek, almost. Each very much the picture of a darling little girl. They were a far cry from the roving thunderstorm she called her own. Still, somehow, they took to Abby with great interest. Especially the youngest—the pale little girl, barely four. Little Carol. She seemed bewildered and entranced by Abby. And it wasn’t a wonder why. Abby had bounded right up to her the moment they’d met. She held none of the reserve or shy caution children sometimes showed one another. She simply wanted to play. 

After that, it was a done deal. Abby and Carol. Carol and Abby. The two of them got along like magnets, following each other up and down the streets and around the grounds. Carol tempered some of Abby’s fire—gave her something and someone to focus on in the empty days in between school terms. Abby fascinated Carol. She was so full of stories and imagination. Carol’s eyes would open wide, watching enrapt as Abby spun around her, narrating some fantastical tale of daring or danger. Sometimes the sister would join in. Elaine. She would chase after the two of them, leaving behind her a trail of laughter. 

They seemed happy, all in all. Margaret couldn’t really argue against that, could she? Happiness was, after all, the privilege of childhood. 

* * *

Abby lay on the grass. She could feel the blades of green crown her, tickling her skin just so. She turned her head, glancing over at the blonde girl laying to her left. 

It’d been a few weeks since the Kents moved in, and Abby thought it was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She loved spending time with Carol. The girl was quiet, but that was just her way. She listened. Abby liked that she listened. There were always games to play, things to do with Carol. They were never at a loss. While she’d enjoyed playing by herself before well enough, everything was better with a partner in crime. 

That was what her father had called Carol once they’d begun to spend most afternoons together. Her partner in crime. Abby had laughed at him. She wasn’t a criminal. She was a _hero_. And Carol… Carol was like a princess, trapped in a tower or perhaps cursed asleep by an evil witch. 

Abby took a deep breath. By her side, Carol shifted and caught her eye. Her mouth broke into a smile—Abby mirrored the act automatically. Carol looked _exactly_ like the fair maidens and princesses in her storybooks. Abby had always wondered at the women in those pictures—their hair so light, their lips so red. She was sure that their skin must feel like silk. Did Carol’s skin feel like silk, she wondered? 

* * *

Six years came and went in a collage of tea parties, make-believe, and playdates. Abby’s parents grew close to the Kents. Virginia was a fine woman. Strict, perhaps. Committed to keeping up appearances. Henry was of the serious sort. He lacked the jovial ease of William but had a patience unlike any other. Together, they were of good humor. They frequented the same social gatherings and often held dinner parties over the holidays. It was every bit as fine a friendship as Margaret could have asked for. The girls were all off to school—Abby to a boarding school in upstate New York, Carol and Elaine to a well-reputed public school closer to the city. Every school holiday was a happy reunion for them. 

All in all, Margaret and William appreciated the friendship between the girls. Carol calmed Abby some. Their daughter, though off at school amongst her peers, had retained her bold attitude and precocious habits. They were refined, of course. Some part of her walked through the world with the knowledge that she was a girl, that her body must move differently than the boys. But she was far from demur. She often moved as if she were a spring, held down, ready to release in a burst of energy. 

As Carol grew, her sweetness remained. She grew warmer, more open. Less shy, Margaret noticed. Especially when it came to Abby. Abby brought something out in the girl. Not her wildness, per se, but some degree of boldness. Added a little steel to her backbone. 

* * *

“My friend Mary says the high schools hold dances with nearby boys schools,” Carol said, digging a divot into the earth with a stick. She angled it down, watching the grass rise above it in a clump, roots dangling. Funny how some things never really broke apart. “They dance with the girls and everything.” She twisted the stick, glanced up at Abby. “With chaperones, of course.” 

Abby grimaced. “I hate dancing.” She leaned against a tree trunk, watching Carol’s work. With a huff, she pushed herself off it, walked a little ways closer to her blonde friend. “It’s so awkward.” 

Carol smiled slightly at the ground, rolling her eyes a little. Abby was so dramatic sometimes. “It doesn’t _have_ to be. You just don’t know how.” 

“I do so!” Abby’s arms crossed over her chest. Carol looked up to see her friend’s face painted with a defiant look. She wasn’t angry. It was something else. Something exciting. Carol felt a flurry in the pit of her stomach—it was a familiar feeling when she hung around Abby. Abby couldn’t leave things be. She was always playing wild. Doing drastic things for the attention of it. For Carol’s attention. It was terrible fun. And now, with her stomach dancing, Carol knew such a fit of spontaneity was on its way. 

Abby peered at her. “I _can_ dance. I just don’t _want_ to with some _stupid_ boy.” She kicked at a knot on the tree root. 

Carol laughed openly, “Well who else are you going to dance with, silly?” Her stomach turned again as she watched a mischievous grin work its way across the older girl’s face. 

“How about…” Abby walked a few paces toward Carol, taking the stick from the girl’s hand and replacing it with her own. “With _you!_ ” She swung Carol around, dropping her into a dip. Carol let out a breathy laugh—part amusement, part shock. 

The swing had more force than Abby had intended, and they tumbled to the ground as it reached its lowest point. 

Abby rolled over, spitting out a leaf that had entered her mouth upon impact. A few clovers stuck to her face. It was spring, and water clung to the greenery in miniscule droplets. The earth was cool still, the air edged with a brisk wind. Abby loved the spring. Everything waking up. Everything reminding you that it was there with its water and its murky scents. 

She would have mud in her hair tonight. Her mother would scold her, of course. They were having dinner with the Kents, and company always made her mother more strict about such things. She knew her father would look sad in that strange, quiet way he’d started showing. Just a little. She knew he wanted her to be gentler, more careful with herself. Maybe he was worried she would hurt herself someday. Or maybe he, like her mother, didn’t like how… boyish she could be. Boyish. That was the word her mother used at the start of the holidays, when Abby had told her about her new bicycle. The one she’d gotten up at school. Plenty of the girls had them, of course. It was lovely exercise for the weekends, biking. But her mother thought the bloomers and bicycle skirts women wore to ride were outlandish. The thought of riding so in public… well. It _wouldn’t_ do. She found it distasteful. _Boyish._

Far as Abby could tell, it wasn’t really the bicycle itself that upset her mother. It was an excuse, a stand-in for all the ways Abby failed to live up to her expectations. The ways she did not embody the “true womanhood” her mother so valued. Margaret just wasn’t a progressive woman. She didn’t understand. Such things were changing. They’d gotten the vote, for goodness sakes. Abby didn’t know much about the politics or social savoir-faire of it all, but she knew one thing: the world was changing. It was moving. And she, for one, was not interested in staying behind when it moved on. 

Abby let out a breath, let one arm fall to her side and the other come up to rest under her head. The sky was a beautiful, bright blue. Whisps of clouds streaked the endless pool of it, but they were few and far between. The joke, really, was on her mother. The other girls liked Abby’s brash ways, her humor, her “boyish” pranks and antics. She was the class clown, the roguish favorite. 

Her mother didn’t understand. Carol, though—Abby glanced over at her friend as Carol rolled to her side and met her gaze—Carol understood. Or, anyway, she didn’t complain. She seemed to like her well enough. Abby’s eyes crinkled at the blonde girl. And that… that mattered far more in the end. 

Carol propped up her head on one hand, letting the other run over the tops of the grass blades. They always ended up out here, it seemed. In the grounds, off and far away from anyone else. Elaine sometimes joined them, but she seemed to have less patience for the listlessness of it all. Abby liked best days without plans. Days that were just open wide, where you could do anything you liked at a moment’s notice. It drove Elaine crazy. Not Carol, though. She liked the surprise of it. She never knew what they would be up to, where they would go, what games they would play. It was so different than her normal day-to-day where things were planned out, schedules were made, and time ruled supreme. Her mother, her teachers—everyone seemed so precise and orderly in her life. But order and Abby did not agree. That was the best part. A little bit of chaos. A little bit of wild change—but all of it warm. 

Carol sighed. “Sometimes, I don’t want to go back to school. I just want to stay out here forever.” 

Abby felt a deep sort of thrumming in her chest. Carol wanted to stay out here. With her. Abby understood how she felt. School meant Abby was off to Dobbs Ferry, New York—off to her school for months on end. She liked it well enough, of course. But she always felt keenly the loss of Carol the days and weeks following the holidays. 

“We could build a little house out here,” Abby mused. “Or carve out this tree and live in there.” She watched Carol’s eyes run over the ground. 

“It’s too little to live in,” she replied, laughing. But even as she laughed, Carol looked up, her eyes bright. She caught sight of Abby watching her, the latter’s lips quirked up in a typical smirk. 

Abby shrugged. “Cozy, sure. But I think we’d just fit.” She rolled onto her side, mimicking Carol’s pose. Unlike Carol, however, her fingers didn’t drift over the tops of the grass, feeling them give way so lightly under her pressure. No, Abby was not so gentle as that. She tangled her fingers into the strands of grass. Pulling some out. Feeling the rest slip out of her grasp tenuously. “Just think, Carol. You could be a fairy queen. Titania, maybe. I could be a knight errant.” Abby glanced up again at Carol. “Or maybe we would be artists gone off to a remote cabin. I’ll be a writer. You can paint.” 

“I can’t paint,” Carol chided, giggling. “I’m not good at it. You know that.” 

“A photographer, then. Something visual.” She stayed like that for a beat—long enough to watch Carol tilt her head in an unsure concession, a ‘maybe.’ Then, getting restless, Abby rolled over again, laying on her stomach and pressing the side of her face into the earth. She closed her eyes, inhaled the scent of dirt and grass and pollen. The breeze was magnificent. Oh, to stay here forever—to build that cabin. 

When she opened her eyes, Carol was looking at her. 

Carol watching her with crinkled eyes. Carol listening to the adventures Abby wanted for them. Carol humming out a noncommittal return. They could be happy together. Abby was sure of it. She felt her lips slope into a smile and propped herself up on her elbows again. 

Carol grinned back at her. 

Or, anyway, Abby had thought it was in response to her. But, as Carol reached out to her, closing the distance between them, Abby’s breath caught in her throat. What was she— 

Carol, laughing openly, touched her hand to Abby’s cheek, pulling from it a pressed clover. “You have stuff all over your face.” She kept hold of the clover, leaning back away from Abby. 

Abby’s face felt warm, her throat tight, her head dizzy. She felt that way any time Carol got too close. It was like some alarm went off inside her, and suddenly her entire body was buzzing. She breathed out a deep breath, trying in vain to ignore how it wavered. She brought a hand up to brush off the rest of the grass from her face. She could feel little grooves, imprints from the plants, criss-crossing her cheeks. She tried for a light laugh, “Yeah. Oops.” 

Carol looked down at the clover, and her smile widened. “It’s a four-leaf clover—Abby, look!” She held the clover in the palm of her hand, cradling it. It was flattened somewhat, with one leaf folded over the side, but from the way Carol held it you would think it was pristine. Some kind of treasure. Carol stared at it for some moments before she looked up to Abby, still smiling, and offered it to her. 

“Here,” she said. “For luck. For when you have to go back to school.” 

Abby took the plant, cradling it as Carol had done. She looked at it with amazement. It was just a plant, but, of course, it was so much more than that. It was a gift. A wish. It was from Carol. 

Feeling a thrill of excitement she could not quite explain, Abby looked up at Carol. “You’ll write me, won’t you? While you’re at school? Promise me you’ll write.” 

Carol tilted her head a little to the side, “Of course. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must say, it is good to be back. I have been working on the structure of this piece for a while now. I wanted to have an idea of the whole arc of it before I began writing.  
> A few comments:
> 
> I'm following the narrative Carol gives us in the novel, when she tells Therese the story of her and Abby's relationship. It isn't that different from the story Abby tells her in the film, but I take me cues primarily from the novel.
> 
> Also, it is worth noting that I have no clue how to write children. I think the ways they articulate themselves often has a directness and simplicity that makes sense to me, but I don't know how to write how they think about themselves... Does that make sense? It's been a very interesting challenge to figure out how to write introspectively for characters that are essentially traveling through time, aging across paragraphs. It's probably done more messily than I'd like, but ah well. They're young.  
> As a result, however, I am running through the childhood memories fairly quickly. They'll be teens by the next chapter. I may circle back after all this is over and write some one-shots to fill in the empty space, but, for now, this is what I feel capable offering.
> 
> Also also: the title of this fic, "The Other Half of the Universe" is pulled from Andrew Wilson's biography of Patricia Highsmith. It is a phrase Highsmith used to describe the role of a lover in her life (in this case, Virginia Kent Catherwood): "She was the 'other half of my universe' and 'together we make a whole.'"  
> Additionally, I've given Carol the maiden name of "Kent" and named her mother "Virginia" after Catherwood. I don't *think* we ever get Carol's maiden name in the novel. Nor her parent's names. 
> 
> Again, it is lovely to be back to writing here. It's no surprise that I wandered back to this fandom. I never can seem to get these characters out of my head...


	2. The Gesture is the Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and Abby exchange a series of letters; Carol celebrates her birthday with a party.

Wednesday, January 15th, 1930 

My dear Carol, 

It has only been two weeks, and I miss you terribly. Quite simply, but quite truly, too. I’m already bored beyond toleration here. The only thing keeping me in good spirits is the fencing. It is invigorating to hold a sword. Even moreso to do the dance of striking it against another’s. I think I understand why men fight in wars. There is a thrill in it, I suppose. 

How are you? How is your sister? I do hope her cold has passed. I hate being ill, especially at school. People treat you like a plague victim. And then, there is still the work to be done on top of it all. 

My roomie Anne—you remember Anne, don’t you? I’m sure I’ve mentioned her before—brought me a little Christmas present from the holidays. It was incredibly thoughtful, and, of course, a complete surprise. They were little chocolates from Germany. She has family there, I believe. Anyway, I was shocked to say the least. After that spat in November, we’ve been what you would call “nice… enough” to one another. Cordial. Nothing more. You would have laughed at me terribly. I was _completely_ taken by surprise. I hadn’t brought her anything! I made do, as usual. I managed to pretend that awful picture my mother gave me for Christmas—the one with the hideous little dog—was something I found for _her_. I had simply “forgotten” to wrap it. I’m not entirely sure that she believed me, but she seemed charmed regardless. It figures. She has terrible taste. 

But, really, I miss you! I wish we were back in the greenhouse—our little igloo—huddled for warmth. Write back to me. Tell me about your day, if you’ve been riding, where you go. Tell me everything. 

Yours, Abby 

* * *

Tuesday, February 4th, 1930 

Dear Abby, 

I’m glad you were able to get rid of that painting—I know you hated it. Will Anne hang it in your room? I hope, for your sake, she does not. 

I’m well enough. Like you, I love the grounds and all the snow. There is something sleepy about the winter that I just adore. Everything is so quiet. And, of course, I miss you. The snow isn’t the same without you. 

Things are par for the course here. Mother has already started talking about my cotillion even though it is years away still. She drives me mad. I can hardly stand it. I envy you going away to school. I think I’d like it all more if I were off somewhere else, only coming home for the breaks. Weekends here are insufferable. 

Or, anyway, they mostly are. My father has been teaching me chess. I play quite badly, but I enjoy it. Perhaps when you’re back, I will teach you a trick of two! 

I haven’t ridden in a while. Mother’s horse was getting a new shoe put on, and then the snow set in. It’s been too cold to ride, she says. I just think she wants to keep me from running off. I never can seem to find excuses to go out that are good enough for her. You’re much better at that than I. I was telling my dear friend Winnie about you the other day. I told her that you could convince a fish to fly. She liked that quite a bit and said she hopes to meet you one day. 

Wouldn’t that be something? You here? During school, I mean. I can only imagine. It certainly would liven things up. Everything is terribly dull without you around to cause a bit of mischief. Elaine is doing much better. I’ve told her that you asked after her, and she was delighted to hear it. She told me to send “a hearty hello.” So, there it is. Heartily. 

I do hope you haven’t been causing too much trouble. Or, maybe that isn’t true at all. Maybe I do hope you’re causing trouble. Just, if you are, I hope I hear about it in great detail. 

Wishing you a happy week ahead,  
Carol 

* * *

Friday, February 14th, 1930 

Dear Carol, 

Ask and ye shall receive, my dear. Yesterday, in your honor, I sculpted a snowman on the front lawns. I dressed him in the finest undergarments I could find. He looked lovely. Really, the brassier tied it all together. As can be expected, it did not go over well with the administration, but I don’t believe they have any proof that I was the guilty artist. I’ve not _yet_ been summoned to the headmaster’s. Keep your fingers crossed that that remains the case, will you? 

It is, of course, Valentine’s Day. And what a happy one it is. I hope you’ll consider my snowy creation a long-distance present from me to you. Signed: ever fondly yours. Then again, a girl I know—an upperclassman—received an _engagement ring_ this morning, so I suppose a snow scandal really isn’t one for the books. Still. I do hope that it is the thought that counts… 

Can you imagine getting engaged on Valentine’s Day? How many people do you suppose do so? It feels cheap to me. Like you’re plagiarizing a dozen stories from someone else. 

My father sent me a card. It was a frilly thing—more of a doily, really, with the sweetest message scrawled across it. I should write to him more. It just never occurs to me to do so. 

I love receiving mail, as you well know. I love it for so many reasons. I love the long, drawn out conversation of it. (Though, of course, I _ache_ waiting for the letters to arrive). I love the performance of it. The drama. It’s funny, I feel I’ve so much more bravado in a letter. Do you think so? 

Well, anyway, I’ve got to go to class. I do hope you’re well. I miss you more than I have the words to explain. Are you doing anything special this weekend? 

Write me back soon! 

Yours,  
Abby 

* * *

Thursday, February 27th, 1930

O my dear Abby,

I was delighted to hear of your “snow scandal.” It made me laugh so much that I swear I’ve told it over and again to anyone who will listen. At this rate, I’m afraid you’re going to become something of a legendary figure over at my school. I’m sure some of the girls believe I’ve made you up, but I’ve said I would never be able to dream up such a character as you. 

My Valentine’s weekend was quiet. I was home, of course. We lit a fire, and Elaine read aloud some from a comedy. You’ve read it, I’m sure. Voltaire’s _Candide_? It was good fun. Elaine did voices and everything for a while. And, of course, it was well suited to Valentine’s Day for all the silly romance. Seeing her recite the lines of the lovers to herself in each character—Abby, you would have been beside yourself. She actually reminded me of you for a moment. I wish Elaine acted like that more often. When she is in good spirits, we get on so well. She makes the time at home a dream.

I’m off for a riding lesson this afternoon. Give my best to your awful roomie and do send me more stories of your exciting life. I so wish you were here!

Everything good and then some,  
Carol

* * *

Thursday, March 13th, 1930

Dear Carol,

Things are busy here. Everyone is bustling about with something to do. I think it is spring that does it. Spring brings out the funniest things in people. It’s still snowing, of course. It almost always is in New York, it seems, but the snow is lighter. It _feels_ different. Or maybe “spring” is just a feeling itself, regardless of the weather… Suddenly, after all the still of winter, it’s as if everything bursts into a flurry of action. How, I am left wondering, do I suddenly have a thousand obligations and essays due? Frankly, I’m offended. However am I supposed to _enjoy_ my days when my days are filled to brim with work? It’s like they expect me to _learn_ something while I’m here. (Of course, you know I jest).

I’ve left this letter short. There’s nothing nearly interesting enough to write about. Everything is business as usual up here. I’ll write again soon.

Fondly,  
Abby

P.S., I did, of course, give Anne your regards. She scowled at me— _scowled!_ —and claimed to have no clue who you were. I am terribly sorry, but I don’t foresee _that_ friendship progressing any further. My condolences.

* * *

Saturday, March 22nd, 1930

My dear Abby,

Happy birthday! I found your present at a little store in Elizabeth when we went for dinner there last. I do hope you like it.

I also hope that you are having the time of your life and that things have calmed down for you. I am quite excited to see you next week. How long will you be back? How are you getting back? Will you take the train—alone? I’m not sure I could do it. I hate traveling alone. There are so many things to see. I like catching the look of surprise or excitement on someone’s face when they spot something fantastic just out the window. It’s good to share in surprise, I think.

I’m afraid I have to go for now. Mother is taking me to the city, and I wanted to send this today at the latest. Hopefully it won’t arrive _too_ late. I never can seem to figure out the schedule of these things. 

I can’t wait to see you—

Fondly,  
Carol

* * *

* * *

The letters continued, back and forth, as the school year sped along. The weather warmed, the snow melted away, and, as the greenery crept out of its quiet hiding, school drew to a close for the girls.

And so it was that early July found Abby tucked away in her room, concentrating hard on a piece of paper spread across her desk before her. It was a map—colorful, original. With bold lines, contentious territories, and fantastical designations. She liked drawing up maps from made up countries and strange lands. It was a kind of traveling, done with the mind and a curious hand. Some days, so delighted was she in her fictional creations that she quite wished she could visit the lands she had dreamt up. It would be a pleasure to walk the hills she had so recently thought into being. She picked up her pencil, added little hatching marks to a jagged mountain range in the northernmost region of the land. There.

The map-making was just a hobby. Something to while away the hours when the weather was off and the Kents too busy to let Carol come out to play. It was the stories Abby thought up as she drew her lines and hatchings that really sustained her. For after she thought them up, she would lock them away securely in her mind, ready to recite them to her favorite audience when next they got together.

Abby had been anxious to return home for the summer. Summer breaks were her favorite. Especially at the beginning, they felt like they went on forever. Weeks and weeks of time during which she and Carol and Elaine could talk and laugh and banish any thought of school from their minds. 

This summer had begun slowly though the house was far from quiet. Her mother kept herself busy, with a seemingly ceaseless stream of guests visiting and convening for some organizational meeting or other. Mrs. Gerhard was a society woman. She understood it to be her responsibility to participate in as many charities, organizing coalitions, and social clubs as her schedule permitted.

Abby brushed a shard of graphite aside absently with her little finger. It left a fuzzy trail clinging to the paper in its wake. 

Well, she joined the _right_ organizations, that was. Those that befit her sensibilities. Abby doubted very much whether those groups that verged on what her mother often called “outlandish, socialist rabble” counted as worthwhile organizations. Abby smirked down at her paper. It drove her out of her mind. Their agendas all seemed so useless, preoccupied with the most inane, far-off problems. Nothing with any _real_ urgency. And then there was their fervent mission to preserve traditional values. That was a common theme among her mother’s organizations. Tradition. And the stalwart obsession to maintain some unerring decency at the core of Good American Folk. 

Abby grimaced, released a breath in one full huff. She shouldn’t let it bother her so. She had other things to think about, good things. Carol’s birthday for one. Right around the corner, in the middle of the month. They were having a party. Mr. and Mrs. Kent had sent out little invitations in the mail. Carol, of course, had delivered Abby’s to her by hand. They were small cards done over in eggshell white. Mrs. Kent’s perfect cursive lay in the center, announcing the date and time and place. 

Abby had been so excited when Carol had brought her the card. A little embarrassed too. It was a strange sort of formality. An indulgent gesture that she presumed was intended to demonstrate a good kind of excess. Carol just seemed thrilled to hold the card, to give Abby something concrete and tangible—something that signified the party and all the coming delight it would bring. And if Carol was happy—well, really wasn’t that what mattered?

* * *

Virginia Kent was a meticulous woman. She believed in plans, in careful organization and a clear follow-through. She held keenly to her morals, and quietly despised anyone who impinged upon them. It was not that she was an unforgiving woman. She had compassion. She understood human error, intellectually. But when her schedules were disturbed, her requests not acquiesced, or her things misplaced, a steely feeling came over her bones. Her spine would straighten. Her lips would thin. Her voice would grow cold and clear and sharp as an icicle. Needless to say, people learned quite quickly to abide by her rules. In her home, things had a way, a direction. And she was the author of that direction. So long as that was understood, she got along famously with everyone.

She looked in the triple mirror hanging upon her bedroom wall, running her palm down the length of her neck and observing the smooth tendons that arose as she turned her head just so. She had always been a beautiful woman. Statuesque, one might say. Some _had_ said. From a very young age, men had noticed her, paid her close attention. Her mother had given her careful advice. Wait, she had said. Wait for the _right_ suitor. And, indeed, Henry had come along—full of promise. He was a kind, handsome man with healthy aspirations and a good, notable name. Hers had not been the most opportunistic family. They’d done well enough financially, but they were mired firmly in the ranks of the unknown masses. Her parents had never joined society, had seemed firmly unbothered by their social status. 

Virginia dipped her fingers in a case of lotion sitting on a table just to her left. She applied the cream carefully down the length of her neck. They’d never had a life like _this_. Now, with her glamorous friends, her spacious car, her perfect family—now she had everything she could ever have dreamed of.

She fully intended that, one day, her daughters would be able to say the same.

Virginia wiped her hands together until the oily feel of the lotion subsided into a soft, even sensation. Tonight would be perfect. It was a dinner party. A fairly small affair—three families, some assorted friends, a few of Carol’s classmates. The birthday was an excuse, really. Not that she didn’t want to celebrate her daughter’s birth. Of course, she did. 

Virginia was just feeling… restless. It was like some small thing within the perfectly ordered universe of her life was amiss. Some small thing that she could neither name nor, really, understand. Just something—wrestling around in her mind, scurrying to and fro, making a nuisance of itself whilst she tried, very diligently, to live as she was wont to do. She had everything in the world she could want. And yet. 

She stared at herself in the mirror. She appraised her carefully pinned hair and its smoothed, chestnut slopes. She eyed the edges of her lipstick, daring it to have stepped out of line in the minutes since she had applied it. And she locked in on her eyes—gray pools. Like ice. Like storm clouds. 

They were the eyes of a woman who should have been happy but wasn’t.

* * *

Carol sat in her room, at her vanity, running her brush through her hair. She was excited. She had had birthday parties before, of course, but most of them had been smaller. Just Abby’s family and hers. They were always delightful, quiet events. But, this year was different. This was a _party_. She sighed, happily running her eyes over the sheen of her cocktail dress. 

She had been terrified and thrilled when her mother had come into her room, weeks ago, and sat herself upon Carol’s bed. Carol supposed she’d noticed how blue she was feeling. Or else how bored. But Mrs. Kent didn’t say any of that. She just leaned in, a twinkle in her eyes, and said in that conspiratorial whisper she got every now and again, “I think I fancy throwing a party.” And that was that. Her mother had risen to the task with such enthusiasm and focus. Carol could hardly complain. She hadn’t had much say in the planning, to be sure, but who really wanted to fuss with all the tiresome details and lists? She was just thrilled to have a party. A party of her own. 

She preened, tilting her head a little so she could see how her hair caught the light.  
It wasn’t so much that she wanted the attention of it all—though, of course, Carol was not a stranger to attention. It was, rather, that a party stood for so much more. It was the thing to do if you were anybody. And, Carol smiled, placing her hairbrush back on the polished wooden vanity, she so very much wanted to be somebody. 

She wanted to welcome guests into her home. She wanted to say, “Why, thank you,” and smile in an even, cool way. To tilt her head, just a little, in response to a comment or question. She wanted a close friend to come up to her while she was mid-conversation with someone else, for them to touch her elbow so very lightly—signally a ‘hello.’ She wanted to stand off to the side of the room, to look out at the numbers of people grouped and chatting and connecting and know that she was, at least in part, the nexus of that living. She wanted to see the beautiful choreography of people conversing, relating.

She loved all the gentle, imperceptible ways one could communicate with another person. Learning the language of each gesture and behavior was like deciphering a secret code, like being party to a closed society. There was something thrilling about knowing. Knowing and performing, just right, the appropriate response. She loved all the textures, the minutiae of things. Smelling the perfumes of all the women in the room, the lingering wisps of cigarette smoke some of the adults carried with them as they walked around. She loved watching how the women held their glasses just-so, how some of them would place a hand jauntily on their hip, rolling their eyes, throwing their heads in buoyant laughter at some joke or other. She loved seeing the way people would relax, would tense up—all depending upon who walked their way.

And better yet were the little gaps in that network of gestures and communications—the impossible little moments where her eyes would drift out through the throngs of bodies milling about only to catch hold of the gaze of a good friend. To share a smile so far apart. A smirk. 

Carol straightened her back. A grin bloomed across her lips and a fluttering moved through her stomach. She let out a happy, shaking breath. Soon, very soon, it would be time.

* * *

Abby walked through the entryway of the Kents' residence to a small crowd of finely dress people, friendly voices, and an atmosphere dappled with the gentle melodies of a player piano. Her mother and her father moved into the parlor ahead of her where most of the adults mingled, glasses filled with what Abby could only suppose was better left unsaid. (She doubted very much whether the Kents had stockpiled _that_ much in their cellars before the restrictions had set in). She watched as her mother greeted Mrs. Kent warmly with a kiss on her cheek, as her father shook Mr. Kent’s hands, as they engaged in the necessary small talk one must endure at such an event. She left them to it.

Abby sighed and crossed her arms gently so that they rested right along her waistline. Where was the birthday girl, anyway? Her eyes swept over the crowd once more. Carol was nowhere to be found. She chewed on her lower lip, tapped her forefinger against her arm anxiously, and wandered down the main hall toward a little sitting room off the dining room that she and Carol so often used. 

A part of Abby detested parties. Well, not all parties. Society ones, mostly. Everything was a serene dance of polite hellos and light chatter on the surface, but, beneath it all, there was an edge. Every smile hid a set of sharp, deadly teeth. Every pair of eyes scoured their surroundings to take stock of anything disagreeable or even slightly unseemly. It was to walk across a minefield if you could read the subtle undertones of conversation and posture. Unfortunately for Abby, she could. All too well.

There was also the fact that none of it was new. Not to her. She’d grown up in drawing rooms and dining halls bedecked with fine silver and tasteful lighting. The faces that frequented such affairs were ones she had known since she’d learned to walk. It was always the same. Her mother would fuss about her terrible posture, her folded hemline—so careless was she with her presentation, her mother thought—her energy that was just _entirely too much_ to be appropriate for polite company. Between the dull conversations and uncomfortable dresses, Abby was always itching to leave mere moments after arriving. 

It was tiresome. 

When she was older, Abby thought to herself with a fierce sort of pride, she wouldn’t attend such things. She would only go to parties with interesting people. Artists and the like. Writers that would tell her wonderfully gruesome stories, painters that would describe the most mundane things in the most peculiar of ways. And none of them need dress up. No, they would be too busy _thinking_ and laughing for all that nonsense. They would gather around a worn wooden table, smoking cigarettes and drinking their illicit liquors, spinning the most marvelous creations out of thin air. No one would bother with formalities or etiquette. It would just be a divinely simple affair. Simple and yet enlivened and unconventional and incredibly new. 

Abby smiled to herself. She could hardly wait. As she rounded the corner, however, coming into view of the sitting room, her eyes filled with the sight of Carol and all other thoughts flew from her mind. Carol was sitting in one of the winged armchairs, smiling over at a group of girls roughly their age. The girls were chatting enthusiastically to one another, gesturing broadly—their comments peppered with giggles. 

Carol, sitting in her chair with her arm resting on its side, her hand poised just under her chin, looked like a pleased architect, a queen holding court. There was something closed about her look, too. Something distant. As if she weren’t really listening to the carefree conversation shared between her companions. But, then, Abby saw her lips quirk in amusement at something said as the other girls set off in peals of laughter. Perhaps she was invested in the gathering. It could be hard to tell with Carol. 

Sometimes, Abby thought to herself, Carol looked like a closed room. With a door locked shut but for a glinting, happy light seeping, tantalizing, from beneath it.

Carol looked up and saw her near the doorframe. Her expression warmed, and she unfolded herself from her chair. Abby’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Abby! I’d almost thought you weren’t coming!” Carol met her at the threshold of the sitting room with a brilliant smile. 

Abby inhaled air and breathed out a smile of her own in return. “You doubt me?” She hoped it sounded playful, confident. She wasn’t sure that it did. 

Carol squinted back in mock exasperation. “Oh please. Never in a million years. You’re the one person I can count on.” She tilted her head toward the other girls in the room—girls who were glancing toward them with curious, excited looks. “Come on,” she said, gently placing her hand on Abby’s elbow to lead her into the sitting room. “I want to introduce you to some of my school friends—”

But Abby could hardly hear the list of names Carol recited, nor process the details of the smiling faces looking back at her. All she could think about was how the place where Carol’s hand had been mere moments before was surely marked with some kind of faint but permanent brand, how her entire arm felt like it was on fire, how her heart was galloping in her chest, how her skin felt too hot and too tight and too clammy—

And how, suddenly, she never wanted the evening to end. Not in a million years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abby strikes me as the kind of person who would want to be a part of the Lost Generation ex-pat artists in Paris--were she born a decade or so earlier, that is. I think she has this romantic idea of the bohemian lifestyle as a life filled with endless time, luxuriously avant-garde conversations, and worn-down glamor. Without, of course, considering the ways one would need to, you know, work. Pay rent. What have you.
> 
> Carol, too, seems like the kind of person who would have inherited certain of her mother's social priorities without really having figured out what the concrete motives or moves are within it all. She loves the idea of this puppeteer hostess persona, but she hasn't yet thought much about the pressures or sacrifices that that would require.


	3. A Strange and Melancholy Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby writes a very important letter.

January 13th, 1931

My dear Carol, 

Was it really only yesterday that I saw you last? It has to have been longer than that. It has to have been years. I keep turning my head to tell you things, only to find you missing. I feel like in the rush and haste of whisking myself away to school, I’ve left something terribly important behind. You’re my ghost limb. Is that an awful thing to say? I hope not. I mean it with all the affection possible.

Because I think of you as a part of my body. You, running through my blood and filling the marrow of my bones. Central and nourishing. But, then, I’m getting caught up in the poetry of it all. They’re just beautiful words, but they feel so true that I get lost in them.

What I mean to say is, you are so very important to me. Necessary. Somedays I can’t breathe for wanting to be near you. To hear you laugh, to share in a quiet little secret—that is everything.

I’m sorry. I’m getting away from myself again. Here I am, a pathetic Orpheus crying onto rocks at your absence! It is so easy to get away from myself with you. I could write poems to you, of you. Poems! Me!

My mind is full of these poetic words, I think, because I realized something the other day. It is a simple thing—terrifying and so entirely fitting to know. A secret that I hope—that I _know_ ¬—you will hold close, like that little clover you gave me years ago. It’s just this: quite simply, I love you. 

Simply. Terrifyingly. Obviously. With every single aspect of my being.

And, of course, these are familiar words. We say them to one another, have said them, over and over and over again. But… what I mean when I say them is something… _more_. 

A friend of mine has a book, you see. This tragic, desperate novel called _The Well of Loneliness_. She leant it to me, and everything became very suddenly clear. _Everything_ became clearer. Stephen—for that is the name of the book’s heroine— _is_ me. So much of her childhood was my childhood and is my present, refracted in some strange, kaleidoscopic way. I could see flashes of myself between the pages or peering around the doorways of the houses she occupied. 

The elation she feels—that dizzying, sweeping, sublime feeling—when she sees the faces of women she loves is as familiar to me as my two hands. It is my constant companion whenever I am at home. When I see you, my heart feels like it is about to burst. And, now, the language is there in me. I can decipher these riddling sensations that I have always felt but never questioned. And, for her as for me, they’re _not off_. They aren’t perverse fantasies or evil machinations. They’re just… _true_. Truer than anything else I’ve ever known.

And maybe this is too much. Maybe I won’t dare to send this letter to you for fear that it says too much, says things that perhaps shouldn’t be said. I sit, paralyzed, in a kind of horrified fear of your response. I don’t mean to overwhelm you—really, I don’t. I just needed to tell you. 

A.  


* * *

* * *

  
  
Abby sat at her desk in her little room, staring at the piece of paper before her—the paper riddled with what felt like bits of her naked soul.

Her hands were sweaty. The joints felt impossibly stiff, like she’d turned into a tin man of sorts in the moments following her confession. Left without a can of oil to soothe the rust. Her chest was hollow, her hear was hammering. It didn’t vibrate through the whole frame of her. It was more distant than that—like she was away from her body, floating beyond it. A small mercy.

She ran the flats of her palms across the lip of the desk—back and forth, back and forth—as if, by pressing her hands into the desk, she would be able to ease the tension so thick in the air around her. 

It was like she had just gotten away with stealing something very small and very precious. That was the feeling. A creeping kind of elation lapped at the edges of her, ebbing closer and closer as it mingled with the cloying waves of dread, fear, regret already coursing through her body. 

Just having _written it down_ was enough to make her nauseous and dizzy and a thousand other things. It was _there_ now. Sitting on her desk. Outside of the confines of her mind, her heart, her secret and safe body. It was suddenly so very, very real. 

And in a letter! God, a _letter_. How could she send such a thing? Some small part of her, seeing the words drying on the paper in front of her, reeled in pure, blind terror. Oh, to scrape those words off the paper, to stuff them back into her mouth, to swallow them down—back to where they would be safe and hers alone. Instead, there they sat. On the paper. On the desk. In the world. 

Yet… some part of her knew she had released something inside of herself—some knot tied so tightly before in the pit of her chest. They were honest words. She believed them even as they terrified her.

Abby took a deep, shaky breath. It was dangerous. With even its mere existence, the letter singled her out as an aberration. At the very least to the world. At most, well… perhaps even to Carol. 

Her stomach turned. _Carol_. Oh god. What would Carol think?

Abby couldn’t help but imagine Carol opening the letter. Would she do so excitedly, carelessly—ignorant of the letter’s contents? Or would she be able to feel its intensity through the envelope? Would the paper scorch her fingertips? (Would such a thing be necessary or would she drop the letter in disgust all on her own?)

Her eyes raced around the edges of the room. It felt like an impossible risk to have written it all down, to even think of sending it out. What if someone found it? Or—What if no one found it? What if she had said it into a vacuum? What if it changed nothing? 

Impossible, she thought to herself. It had already changed everything. 

Abby wondered at the letter. She was less panicked but no less unnerved by it. And what if she _did_ send it? Sure, she thought to herself tilting her head a little to the side, she’d always been reckless. One for risks. You never got anything in life by standing still. But, this. _This_ was more than her usual array of pranks and irreverence. There was so much more at stake than detention. There was everything at stake.

But as she ran over the words of her letter once more, Abby wrinkled her brow at the letter. They were _true words_. Her words. She felt them, keenly.

So, it was with a shaking breath that she began to fold up the paper into thirds. By the second fold, her heart’s pounding had changed its tone from dread to a quiet excitement. She felt a little like she’d finished more than the letter. Like she had escaped one story and started off on another—so crisply new, so terrifyingly unpredictable.  


* * *

  
  
It took five days for Carol to receive the letter. Six more hours for the postal service to deliver it to her house, nestled among the rest of the day’s mail. Only four minutes after the post shushed its way through the postal slot in their door, falling with a flat slap upon the floor, did Carol enter the front room. 

She spotted the small pile of letters, one package in rough brown paper, and a thin, blue government flier. Picking them up, she assessed each item with vague curiosity. The flier was familiar—some dither on keeping morale high in the hard times. It seemed they got something of the sort weekly these days. Carol shuffled it to the back of the stack of mail. The package was for her father. She peered at it—it was a strange shape for a package. Rather like how fresh fish from the market looked, all swaddled tight in the paper wrapping. Still, her father did not like her to mess with his things. Under normal circumstances, she might pry more, but he was often in a cross mood these days. Work did not seem to be going well. She placed the package on a nearby end table. Nevermind, nevermind. The letters: there were four. Each dressed in off-white envelopes. For her mother. For her mother. For her mother and father. For _her!_

A smile broke out across Carol’s face. Abby had sent her a letter. It was always a treat when she got a letter from Abby. She was nearly always expecting one—when it wasn’t her turn to reply, of course—but it hadn’t been all that long since Abby had left for school. What _could_ she have gotten up to in such a short amount of time?

Carol raced up the stairs to the left of the main hall. She kept her stationary set—a gift from her mother two Christmases ago—in the little middle drawer of her vanity. She supposed that wasn’t precisely what vanities were for, storing stationary… But her mother wouldn’t let her keep cosmetics, so it was a good enough space as any. 

Reaching her room, Carol paused in the doorway. She looked down at the letter in her hand once more. She loved getting letters from Abby. They always made her whole day. She was almost tempted to hold off on reading the letter to prolong the fun of having received it. But, no. She would simply reread it later, laughing all over again at its content, if she felt like it.

She went to the vanity, grabbed her stationary and a little ivory letter opener passed down from her grandmother. She sliced open the envelope a little clumsily. She still had not mastered the confident and fluid move of opening letters. Her father did it without a thought, as if it were nothing. 

The letter inside was a long one. At least twice as long as Abby’s usual letters. Carol wrinkled her brow lightly. She hoped nothing was the matter. 

As her eyes ran over the slanted lines of script, her brows drew closer and closer together. She wasn’t sure what she felt. Her skin was so warm. She sat down on the little armchair in the corner of her room, her usual reading chair. Carol found her attention slipping from the letter’s contents as her mind spun. She noticed, instead, the faint crease lines on the paper where Abby must have gripped the page with too much force. She noticed the way the periods that speckled the letter were not so much careful dots as dashes tossed out in haste. She noticed that new, strange, and strangely confident signature. “A.” Who was this “A”? Had she ever met “A” or was this a wholly new creation? 

Carol looked around the room, suddenly aware that she’d left the door to her bedroom open. Surely, she should close it. Should someone come upon her while she was reading this… well. It would be best to close the door. 

It felt odd to put the letter down on the chair, felt absurd to walk evenly toward the door, to grip its glass handle and guide the door to its frame. It felt so strange to do such mundane things while her heart pounded and her insides clamored for her to run, to shout, to do _something_ to match the churning currents of her mind. 

As she returned to her chair, now safely private, she spotted her stationary sitting on a nearby table. She could have laughed. Or cried. She couldn’t write back now. Not immediately. How did one respond to such a letter, such a confession? 

She picked up the letter again, gingerly. Part of her wanted to read it once more, to be _sure_ that it said what she thought, that it had meant what she thought. But she knew she hadn’t been mistaken. She’d understood the letter perfectly.

There were girls at her school that spoke of people who were… that way. Girls and boys who preferred other girls and boys. She had laughed alongside them at the thought of it. It just seemed like such an outlandish thing. Something that _other people_ would have to deal with. Carol herself hadn’t thought much of it at all. It seemed ridiculous, of course, but she hadn’t quite understood why it provoked such a delighted mixture of disgust and horror for her friends. She knew about… sex. Well, she knew enough about it, anyway. She knew that it was something, and she supposed that was the reason for all the fuss. Though, how any of that worked in this case, she didn’t—

Carol blinked. Her face felt hot. Her mouth was dry. She cleared her throat. The sound startled her. 

But Abby wasn’t like _that_. Abby was… Abby. Just Abby. She wasn’t some horrible vampiric seductress, preying on innocent young girls. She wasn’t—what was the word Mary had used?— _perverted_. She was strong, honest, crazy Abby. It just didn’t make sense. The pieces wouldn’t fit together. 

Maybe she was mistaken? Carol wondered, but as she looked down again at the curling letters running along the page, she knew it wasn’t so. Abby loved her. _That_ way. 

There was something else, too. Something beneath the shock and bewilderment. Carol could not help but notice a fuzzy little feeling of comfort hiding beneath all the others. She was… happy, in a way. Happy to be so important, to be so cared for by another person. She felt special, she supposed. In a way. Abby loved _her_. Of all the people in the world. Someone loved her… 

It was nice, she supposed. In a way…

Carol looked down at the letter again, her brow creased. She bit the inside of her cheek. What could she say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helene Cixous wrote in _The Book of Promethea_ : "And I was afraid. She frightens me because she can knock me down with a word. Because she does not know that writing is walking on a dizzying silence, setting one word after the other on emptiness. Writing is miraculous and terrifying like the flight of a bird who has no wings but flings itself out and only gets wings by flying."
> 
> There's something of that in Abby's letter, I think.


	4. A Chronicle of Unbelievable Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Abby's letter, things do not go as planned.

They didn’t talk about it. Weeks went by. Months gave way to other months, and they didn’t talk about it.

After days of stewing, uneasy and paralyzed with indecision, Carol still had not replied to Abby. Finally, she received a second letter from her—one lighter, unencumbered by the weight of confessions. Carol seized this letter, held onto it like a life raft, and responded in haste. Lightly. 

And thus, things changed. _They_ changed. The velvety richness of their friendship shifted into something less textured, something less intimate. It wasn’t that they avoided each other, precisely. Their parents were friends. They saw each other at dinner parties and functions. Rather, it was as if that ghostly tether that had once connected them at all times—that perpetual openness held between them—had given way to a more cautious pattern of exchanges. Their letters dwindled to a trickle. Carol began to spend more and more time with her school friends, began to ease more willingly into the society role her mother encouraged. Abby, in turn, sank into her studies while, in public, she adopted a carefree demeanor—offering charisma and good humor to those around her. She gained a great many social friends with whom she would spend evenings in spirited debate and casual laughter. So preoccupied with their newfound activities were they that the newly tense air between them, the shift in their constant companionship, and the restless unease that plagued the both of them hardly registered to the untrained eye. 

Over a year passed in this fashion. Propelled forward as if by some automatic force. Everything was as it should have been. And yet, nothing was. 

For Abby and Carol, the time was haunted with a kind of hollow ache. Unresolved and ringing, the letter hung above their heads like the sword of Damocles. It was a wound of sorts. One that would not close—not with time or distance.

… 

Though Carol had resolved not to speak about the contents of Abby’s letter to anyone, she had not gotten rid of it. She kept it secure—a precious artifact—and read it sometimes, late at night, when she felt that familiar sense of loss, of incompleteness. Of missing Abby. All other times, she kept it tucked away under her stationary, safe and secret. 

It made her profoundly guilty without fail, of course. Guilty and hurt and not a little desperate. She knew she should have written back, should have acknowledged the letter in some way, have done _something_ besides freeze up. Perhaps they would still be close if she had. 

But another part of Carol knew that she did not feel the way Abby felt about her. Not precisely. She cared for her, absolutely. But her feelings were not that of the burning passion Abby had articulated. Carol had always felt a deep sense of comfort in Abby and a sharp sweep of thrill, too, at all the ways Abby could surprise her. Was that love? Perhaps. But not the same kind. And, anyway, she wasn’t… she didn’t… _like_ her. Like that. She didn’t think about… kissing Abby— 

Did Abby think about kissing Carol? 

And, just like that, her throat would run dry and her stomach felt like she had fallen from a great height. Nothing, it was nothing—she would remind herself, often running a hand across her face to sweep away her hair and the thoughts with it. 

But such thoughts dogged Carol. They crept up on her whenever she spotted Abby at a function, when her name came up in conversation with her parents, when she would, inevitably, return to the letter hidden away in her room. She could not help but feel an insatiable curiosity about Abby’s love. Abby’s attention. What would it feel like if— she would being to wonder before shaking her head and forcing herself to focus on whatever conversation or task was nearest at hand. She did not want such thoughts. She wanted to carry on, to be liked, to be _normal_. And normal was decidedly _not_ Abby Gerhard. 

Abby, too, thought often about the letter and about the silence that had followed it. She had grown a little more cautious, a little more reserved as a result. She was still a gregarious sort of figure—she could conduct an audience of her peers in a symphony of laughter if she wanted, any time she wanted—but she was not as open as she used to be. 

The letter had jarred her out of herself. It had shaken her to her core, delivered her deepest secret to its source, and left a wreck in its wake. When Abby had realized Carol would not respond, something broke a little bit inside of her. It had been a mistake to mail the letter. Perhaps a mistake to have written it at all. She had been so sure… and so wrong, it seemed. 

And, surely, they had exchanged a few correspondences over the past year, but they were empty things. Held back. Even the frivolous things—the most mundane updates on life, on school, on the weather—felt tepid, pale, restrained. Without their former fire, the letters had lost their magic, had lessened and lessened and, eventually, stopped coming altogether. 

Abby had hoped that, in their chilly silence, her feelings would abate. They did not. 

Instead, running across Carol was a trial of strength. It hurt. Profoundly. When they would meet at functions, Carol would nod her curt nod and turn away the moment she found someone else to occupy her. Abby was never sure if she wanted to run over to her, grab her by the shoulders, and… and—what? Scream? Cry? Beg her for answers or a reconsideration or a new beginning? Beg her to be her friend again, to forget everything and just come back? Beg her to love her. Just a little. She could strike her for her cruelty. Weep for the loss of it all. And, still, she knew she would fall into those eyes the second they rested on hers. 

She made it a general practice to stay away from Carol, lingering instead in the threshold of the smoking room and listening to the men talk business over their cigars. The mothers, occasionally, walking by to exchange a particularly salacious bit of gossip. She liked inhaling the smoke that billowed about the room. She liked the sting of it. 

* * *

* * *

Elaine Kent was not a nosy girl. She tried her best to mind her own business, to stay out of things that did not concern her. She went to school, did her work, and spent her free time with a small assortment of friends. She was a pleasant sort of girl—somewhat serious but not unhappy. 

She prided herself on a sense of patience and humility honed over years and years of being overshadowed by her younger sister. She’d grown used to the attention Carol received, grown a thick skin to ensure that it did not bother her. Much. She wasn’t particularly close to her sister—the two girls had a mild, familiar sort of fondness for one another but no real intimacy. They enjoyed each other’s company well enough, but it was Abby that Carol always connected with. Elaine couldn’t complain. It had smarted somewhat when Carol and Abby had become an inseparable duo, when she’d been left out in the cold. But, ultimately, she knew it hadn’t had anything to do with her. They ran along on their own orbit—one that Elaine couldn’t or didn’t want to follow. So, she had left them to it. And she had moved on—patiently and humbly. 

It was a rainy Wednesday, and Elaine entered Carol’s room in search of a spare envelope. She’d been writing a letter to a friend when she realized that she had run out of her own. Carol kept a stock in her vanity—she was always writing letters, it seemed. She had plenty to spare. And so, Elaine walked the little ways down the hall to Carol’s room, pushed open the door, and headed for the vanity sitting against the nearest wall. 

Carol’s room was neat. It always was. Carol was an expert at keeping things in their place, tucked away, just like their mother. Elaine had had to work at the practice of neatness. She wasn’t messy by any means, but life did have a tendency to get away from her at times. She sighed, pulling back the small bench that accompanied the vanity. Carol was always in control. Always perfect. 

She opened the drawer to find the stationary set, an ivory letter opener, and several fountain pens—all neatly lined up, side by side. Perfect. 

Elaine took the stationary set out of the drawer, setting it on top of the vanity. It was a green box with an open face. A number of small, blank sheets of cream-colored paper sat in a stack at the top. Underneath it lay two stacks of envelopes, also in cream. It was a beautiful set—understated but crisp. Elaine removed the blank sheets from the box, using them to nudge it a little out of the way so there was room for them on the vanity desk top beside the box. As she turned back to grab an envelope, Elaine clipped the corner of the box with her wrist. It tumbled to the floor. 

“Dammit,” she muttered under her breath, stooping to pick up the envelopes now strewn across the carpet. She reached for the overturned box, noticing as she did so a small, folded piece of paper peeking out from under several envelopes. What— 

Curious, Elaine picked it up. 

The paper was worn—soft from being handled over and over again. The crease where it was folded over was a fuzzy edge. Elaine unfolded the paper, sparing a quick glance at the door. She didn’t doubt that Carol would be less than thrilled to find her reading whatever this was. Really, she should just put it down, put everything back in its place, and walk away. Pretend she saw nothing. 

Elaine paused for a moment, thinking. Carol was not forthright. She was kind and well-mannered and _perfect_ , but she was not an open person. It was not surprising to find out that she had secrets. 

It was surprising to stumble upon one of them so readily available. She pinched the corner of the paper hard between her fingers and breathed—once, twice. Even as she continued to debate with herself, she felt her eyes slide down to the paper lined with slanted cursive. A letter. 

She read it. 

Her mouth fell open a little. Her brows drew together in a severe line. Her fingers gripped the letter in a painful pinch. What on _earth_ — 

A. 

Elaine’s eyes had caught hold of the signature. _A_. Abby. It must be. No one else wrote Carol as much. No one else would have been so close, so… intent. 

Perhaps this was why she hadn’t seen the two of them together in months. 

Well, good riddance. Abby had always seemed like a queer girl. She was too brash, too roguish. And she’d had entirely too much of a hold on Carol. Elaine had always thought that Abby was jealous of Carol’s looks or her gentleness. Something. She’d always been so _focused_ on Carol. Possessive, even. Well. Now she knew why. No wonder. Elaine grimaced. 

She glanced up around the room once more. Everything was so quiet, sitting so innocently still before her. But why would Carol have kept this in her vanity? Elaine wondered to herself. With her stationary. Hidden. Her finger brushed against the paper and its worn texture. How many times had she read it? _Why?_ Had she… responded? 

Elaine let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Unhealthy. That’s what it all was. Any way you looked at it. Unhealthy and wrong and… and…. 

Elaine straightened her back, folding the worn letter in half once more before slipping it into the pocket of her skirt. With a slight nod, she hastily gathered the rest of the spilled envelopes into the box. 

Whatever Carol had or hadn’t done, it all needed to stop. She shouldn’t have kept the letter. She should have told someone and had the whole matter put to rest. 

She returned the stationary set to the vanity, replaced the bench, and strode out of the room—feeling the square of paper brush against her leg. 

If Carol wouldn’t help herself, her sister would do it for her. 

* * *

Virginia Kent was on her third martini of the night. The gin was poor—not what she would have wanted to purchase, but one couldn’t be too picky these days. It was a small miracle there was booze to be had at all. She knew that. Still… 

If ever there were an evening when Virginia could use a strong drink, this was the one. 

She released a long breath and ran the tips of her fingers over the base of her martini glass, feeling its smoothness warm from her skin. Before her on the table lay a problem. The worn, creased letter seemed to mock her with its purple prose and its indecent declarations. In _her_ house. Of all things. 

It was a problem—one that she was not yet sure exactly how to handle. 

On the one hand, Carol had only received the letter. There was no indication that anything… untoward was going on between the two girls. In fact, she’d not seen or heard from Abby in quite some time. Perhaps Carol had cut Abby off. Perhaps she rejected the advance and told her to stay away. If so, Virginia could let it be, let them have parted ways, and hope that it was all over and done with. 

But—Virginia glanced down at the letter and tapped her forefinger absently next to its furred edge—there was this little artifact. Carol had kept it. That could be… something. 

It wasn’t the end of the world, Virginia reminded herself, taking a small sip and pressing her lips together. Everyone had girlhood crushes—flights of fancy and daydreams of running off with you best friend. Living happily together. But then you outgrew them. You turned your attention to real things, real relationships. You met boys, and you got married, and you had children, and you had a _life_. 

Abby was sixteen. She had met boys. She had decided she did not want them. Instead, she wanted Carol. Virginia took a deeper drink, grimacing a little as she swallowed. Abby was the problem. Carol—whatever she felt—could still be managed, could still be taught a different way. Abby was the wildcard. She’d have to talk with Margaret and William. 

* * *

Margaret was pacing back and forth in the study, her hands wringing as she pressed down on the line of her knuckles in alternating moves. William sat in his chair a little ways to the left, smoking his pipe and staring at a patterned spot on the carpet. He had not spoken in minutes. 

“What should we _do_ , William?” Margaret asked for the fifteenth time. She spoke the question into the air like a prayer, like she was calling for a divine signal. William had stopped trying to answer after her fifth plea. 

William was more weary than anything. Some part of him understood Margaret’s distress, her frantic desire to find a solution—something, _anything_ , to stymie the inevitable flow of gossip that Abby’s letter would provoke. If it got out, that was. And, for Margaret, such a crisis seemed inevitable. 

William was less urgent. He did not like that Abby had written the letter, did not like that she had expressed such feelings for Carol, but nor did he like that Virginia Kent had pushed Margaret into something of a hysteria over the whole mess. 

As far as William was concerned, the matter could be resolved quite easily. He inhaled through his pipe, holding the smoke for a moment as he arranged the words in his head. When Margaret was in one of her moods, he made an effort to tread carefully with his phrasing. He exhaled, sending smoke curling through the empty air before him. As Margaret passed by him once again, the plume pulled after her, warping slowly. 

“Margaret, dear,” William began. He tried to keep his voice even but not too lighthearted as to sound callous. “Everything will be just fine.” 

Margaret paused in her course, glanced over at William with a look of exasperated disbelief. “Fine? _Fine_? How on earth will things be fine? William, our girl—our _little_ girl. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen the letter with my own eyes. She’s always been a little… less feminine than most girls, but, really William! Abby—our Abby. How could things be fine?” 

William held up a hand to stem the flow of his wife’s panic. “Maggie.” She met his eyes. “I know,” he said quietly. 

Silence hung thick in the air. 

“I have a cousin in Cambridge. England. She can go to stay with him. Take classes at Girton or enroll in a secondary school in the area. She will continue her education, get a change of scenery. It will do her some good. When she is ready, when she is _well_ , we’ll bring her home.” William pronounced his words slowly, deliberately. As if he were taking their measure even as he said them. 

“Europe.” Margaret said through a hollow laugh. “You want to send her to Europe. She needs _help_ , not a vacation!” 

William shot her a quelling look. His voice sharpened with a steely edge. “I will not have my daughter poked and prodded as a doctor’s plaything. She will go to Cambridge. She will stay with Charlie. She will attend to her studies. That is all.” 

“Now really, William—” 

“I said, that is all.” 

The clock in the hall clicked and began to emit a ringing tune. Ten long chimes swam through the air, lingering. 

* * *

“I’ve spoken to Abby’s parents. They are sending her away for the time being—until all this nonsense gets sorted out.” Mrs. Kent spoke briskly, walking around the parlor, returning items to their respective places as she went. Carol, looking very small and very pale, stood beside the door. Her eyes tracked her mother’s feet as they moved around the carpet. Her mind reeled. 

It was all a blur. 

Her mother had called her into the room ten minutes prior with a stern voice. Carol had immediately known something was off. Her mother wasn’t the most outwardly affectionate woman in the world, but she wasn’t cold. Carol had followed her into the parlor, stood there waiting, steeped in trepidation, while Mrs. Kent occupied herself with anything but the girl she’d called. Finally, after a few heavy moments, she told her. They’d found the letter. 

It was like the whole world had been pulled out from under Carol’s feet. She felt frozen and, at once, as if the room were a thousand degrees. Heat rose up in her, flooding her cheeks. She could have sworn her heart had stopped beating. 

Her mother kept speaking. She referred to it all as a “situation,” and informed Carol that the Gerhards had been notified. She spoke as if the whole thing were Abby, only Abby. There was no mention of Carol having gotten the letter, kept the letter. No mention that she had been involved at all, really. Just the sense that she had faced a “situation,” and that that “situation” would soon be resolved. 

But, sending her away. _Sending her away_? Away where? Her heart skipped a beat. She knew where women with… _inversion_ went. Sanitariums. 

Carol’s pulse quickened. Her throat constricted. She tried to clear it, swallowing hard. “Do—do you know where—” 

Mrs. Kent turned to look at her. Her face was an unreadable mask—serious but… something else too. She seemed to contemplate something for a beat. Then, “She will be going abroad. For school. I don’t know where.” 

Carol released a breath. Nodded slightly. Returned her gaze to the floor. Abroad. Not a hospital. Abroad. Good. Or, well, better. 

… 

Virginia watched her daughter for a moment longer. Some small part of her felt badly. She hadn’t asked for this. She had simply made friends with a girl. She simply cared for her. Her expression softened. She ran her hands down the front of her dress, straightening the fabric. “Now,” she said, making an effort to lighten her voice, to speak some sort of encouragement into her tone. Carol looked so defeated. “Go upstairs, wash your face, and get ready for dinner. It will be ready soon.” She nodded once and headed out of the room—pausing briefly to squeeze Carol’s shoulder as she passed her. 

… 

Carol entered her room. It felt different. Like it had betrayed her. Like it was secreting some unknown surveillance. She was half sure that she would find some sort of wire, some sort of recording instrument. Maybe some obscure mind-reading technology one read about in books that would see right into her mind, pluck out every thought that shouldn’t be there. 

She hugged herself around the waist. Everything felt awful. 

Poor Abby. _Poor Abby_. Carol felt a tug in her chest. She wanted so very much to say a thousand things to Abby. To apologize, or, or… something. To say that it was horrible that she was leaving. To say that she hadn’t meant for things to go this way, that she hadn’t been the one to show them the letter. That it was all a horrible, terrible mistake. And she was so very, very sorry. 

Tears pooled and Carol’s eyes burned. She sucked in a stuttering breath that released in a sob. This was it. Surely. Somehow, even after all the silence and abysmal tension strung out between them over the past many months, Carol hadn’t really thought of their friendship as being over. It had still been there, ghosting around them. Even though they weren’t speaking, Abby was still always there. Across the room. There was a comfort in that. A painful comfort, but a comfort. Now… 

Now it was surely all over. 

Abroad. For however long. She would just be… gone. 

Carol looked at the tall windows lining her bedroom wall. She looked at the way they admitted streams of golden evening light—light that always seemed so peaceful, so magical. The motes floating graceful through the light beams had always made her feel like time slowed down, just for a moment. Like the air in an enchanted forest, Abby had described it. 

Carol’s face crumpled. She sunk down into a crouch, hugging her knees to her chest desperately. A terrible, horrible mistake. 

From downstairs, she heard her mother call her to dinner. 

* * *

Abby Gerhard was packing for Europe—all the while, a strange mixture of feelings swirled about her mind. As she emptied her wardrobe of her favorite jackets, her most prized shirts, she couldn’t help but think on those feelings. 

She had always wanted to travel. She had always wanted to see Europe. Some of the most brilliant authors and painters and poets and people she admired a great deal were from Europe. Or in Europe. 

She could go to Paris on the weekends. Meet some of the most incredible people… And, and… There was a whirlwind of possibilities unfolding in front of her. She was excited. Really. 

But. Also. There was a kind of hollowness to the excitement. A bitter taste to it. 

It wasn’t really a choice, see. It was an opportunity, of course, but it wasn’t really a choice. She hadn’t _chosen_ to go to Europe. She was being sent off. It was a punishment of sorts—even if it didn’t feel like it. They didn’t want her here. 

Abby chewed on the inside of her cheek. She carried a stack of socks to her suitcase, tried to focus very hard on folding them just so. 

It was her letter. They’d found it. She had— _someone_ had given it to them. Her mother had been distraught, had wept. Abby had tried to say it was all a mistake. She’d been wrong. She didn’t really have those feelings—she’d just been caught up in the book she’d been reading and… and— 

It hadn’t mattered. She’d never been a very good liar. And, anyway, it was a done deal. Father had already reached out to the family she was to stay with. They’d already made arrangements at a day school in Cambridge. She was to start the new semester there. 

It was all set. 

And yet, the pit in Abby’s stomach felt the unresolved ache of it all. The suddenness, the upturn, the terrifying possibility she tried so hard to ignore, to deny. Had Carol… Was it her fault? But, no. It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t— She couldn’t… Not to her, to Abby. 

_But you haven’t spoken to her in months. She could have changed. She could have decided that she hated you for what you said to her_. Abby frowned, threw open her wardrobe door with such force that it swung on its hinge violently, crashing back against the wall. 

She paused, sighed. She just needed to get through it. Everything would be fine once she’d reached her cousin’s. Everything would be different. A new start. 

She swallowed, fighting back the burn that crept up her throat. She could do this. She could do this. 

She pulled out a few scarves from the wardrobe absently, freezing as she realized what she was holding: A pale green wool scarf. Little marks of blue lined the tasseled edge. It was birthday present. From Carol. Her fingers felt numb touching it. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the side of the wardrobe. 

What a mess. What a terrible, horrible mess she’d made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Are you sad? I'm sad.


	5. Loneliness Swept Over Her Like a Rushing Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now abroad, Abby begins to adjust to her new circumstances.  
> At home, Carol feels like something is amiss in her life.

Abby stepped over the threshold of Charlie’s house. It was large, to say the least. The entrance hall was a cavernous, open space with tall ceilings and a wide staircase winding up either side of the room. Abby released a breath. She was going to live here. This place. Okay.

She heard someone clear their throat off to her left. Standing just inside the doorway to what appeared to be a study stood her cousin Charlie. Or, she assumed it was her cousin. She’d never met the man. Only seen pictures of a much younger version of him from her parents' wedding. He was a professor at the university. He taught anthropology or… sociology… Something like that. He wasn’t married—not anymore, her father had said without elaborating—and he didn’t have any children of his own. It was just him in this gigantic house. Him and the staff and his collection of cultural artifacts. 

“Abby, I presume,” he said in a quiet voice, nodding his head in a gesture of welcome. “I hope you had an extremely uneventful time during your travels here.” 

Charlie surprised Abby. He was a slight man. Not sickly, but somewhat delicate looking. Not the broad-shouldered and barrel-chested image that came to characterize men in her mind. Instead, Charlie carried himself carefully, hesitantly. He surveyed her with a kind of curious caution, as if he, too, were unsure how to reconcile the reality of Abby against his expectations. 

“Yes,” Abby replied after realizing she’d left the silence too long. “It was all fine. Boring, even.” 

Charlie’s lips quirked. “I’m glad to hear it.” He moved further into the room, waving his hand to direct three men up the stairs as they entered the house behind Abby carrying her cases. Though he directed them, he addressed Abby. “You’ll be staying in third bedroom on the left of the upstairs hall. These men will deliver your things there.” With another wave, the men headed to their destination. Charlie turned to look at Abby. “I believe dinner will be served around 7 o’clock. I’ll do my best to be there. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit late. It has been some time since I’ve had guests, and I keep rather odd hours on my own.” 

… By the time she had made her way up to her room, Abby was exhausted. The trip had indeed been uneventful, but it was also tiring. The room before her was a welcome respite—dark, cool, with forest green walls and white trims. The bed and chairs in the room were covered in a heavy brocade that seemed to cushion the very air. Abby wandered into the space, aimlessly running her eyes over the various items in sight. 

She didn’t know what she’d expected to feel once she arrived at Charlie’s house. She didn’t know what she’d expected the house or her room or her cousin to be like. Whatever those expectations, they were cartoonish, exaggerated notions compared to the reality. Ultimately, everything just felt… dulled. She was finally here, had finally arrived, and to what? A strange and lingering emptiness. 

Whatever faint sense of excitement Abby had been hoping for, holding onto to keep her bolstered through her time here, was nowhere to be found. Instead, her exhaustion spread through her, weighing down her limbs and causing her head to pound. 

She was here as a punishment. The notion struck her with newfound truth. A bi-continental time-out. That was what all this was—certainly not a vacation. And she was stuck, here. For god knows how long. 

And she was alone. 

Abby shook her head, sat down hard on her new bed, and stared out the window. Loneliness washed over her in waves. 

* * *

Carol walked out the entrance hall of her school, following her friends without really hearing their words. It was a beautiful day—sunny with a brisk breeze that tempered the summer’s lingering heat. The leaves had begun to hint different colors, and the air itself was thinner, crisper than the muggy humidity so common of midsummer. 

Carol was not noticing any of this, of course. Instead, her thoughts were pulled toward a name she’d carried around in her mind all day. Abby. Abby, who was not in New York. Abby, who was no longer on the same continent. Abby, who had been whisked away so early one morning that Carol had simply awoken to her absence. Somehow, that made it all so much worse. 

All day, her mind had badgered her with incessant questions she had no answers for. 

Was Abby mad at her? Would she ever forgive her? What if she met new people and never wanted to return? Was she distraught? Happy to be traveling, as she’d always wanted to? Had Abby even made it overseas? 

Her stomach turned. What if something horrible had happened—a shipwreck or she’d lost all of her luggage or she’d been kidnapped by someone or— 

She focused on taking long, even breaths. No. She couldn’t think like that. Abby would be fine. Abby _must_ be fine. 

She tilted her head, trying very hard to focus on the conversation happening in front of her—hoping for something, _anything_ , to distract her from her preoccupations. More and more often these days, she found herself lost in her thoughts, far away from the local dramatics of her school community. If her friends noticed her silence, they said nothing of it, simply moved on with their own concerns. Carol tried very hard not to let that bother her. 

“Well, I don’t know, but _I_ heard that Jimmy Harvers asked Mildred to a dance just last week.” 

“Dance? What dance?” 

“That Fall mixer thing. It’s just for upperclass girls. You can only go if you’ve been asked by someone older otherwise.” 

The girl walking beside Carol stuck her lower lip out in a dramatic pout. “ _I_ want to go to a dance. We don’t get to do _anything_ in our year.” 

Carol let out a heavy huff of breath. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. A lot of the social activities were reserved for older students. Dances, for instance. There were mixers open to the entire student body, but dancing was reserved for older students. Her sister had told her once that the older girls were looking for husbands, so they needed to know whether boys could dance or not. Carol wasn’t entirely sure she believed that. She also wasn’t entirely sure she cared about going to a dance or not. She knew she ought to. It was the thing to do and whatnot, but she just didn’t think she’d like the loudness of it all. 

Carol watched students walking around them, peeling off in groups to walk to their respective dormitories or else to the gardens or else to town. The rhythm was familiar to her, like a song she could hum absently without realizing she was humming it. Today, though, it felt… different. It was the first day of the new school year. It should be electric. Instead, it was sedated. Banal. She would rather be anywhere but— 

No. She wouldn’t. She knew exactly where she would rather be. And with whom. 

Carol swallowed hard, feeling her throat constrict and her eyes burn. She willed her emotions to abate, steadying herself through breath. Through the sight of the steps beneath her feet. Through the vague sounds of her friends’ voices. 

Not here. Not now. Just… not now. 

* * *

Charlie was kind, if, indeed, distractible. Abby didn’t see him all that often. He spent his time in his study, working, or else at the university in meetings and classes. During the odd meal, Abby and Charlie exchanged stulted conversation—talking about his work and her studies and odd little details of their lives. It was all fairly impersonal—not unpleasant, but distant. 

Abby could not help but wonder at the difference between her life here and the one she had left in New Jersey. Everything had been under a magnifying glass there. Abby’s mother kept a wary eye over all of her activities—had done so even before she’d learned about the letter. Their house had been a well-ordered system. Not quite the perfectly managed mechanism of Carol’s home, but still… controlled. Everything had a place. Everything was there for a reason. Everything did what it was supposed to—save for Abby, that was. 

Abby had always been the out-of-place variable in her home. She’d always been the small dose of chaos shaking up the organization of her parents’ lives. 

Living with Charlie wasn’t quite like that. Charlie kept such odd hours, was late to nearly everything, and his mind was hardly present even when he was physically there. His house was not an organized system. It staggered and jumped ahead, fell behind, skipped the usual steps. There was a freedom to it. Abby was not beholden to anyone else’s schedule. As long as she came home every night and kept up with her schoolwork, her time was hers to control. 

It was almost a laugh to think that such a home could act as any kind of discipline, as any kind of corrective. 

For the first few weeks, Abby found herself awash in all the time and freedom. She had school, sure, but no one to keep her focused on particular studies or a particular timetable for finishing her work. So, naturally, she had a rough start. She found herself unfocused, daydreaming through the classes and putting off any assignments that awaited her. Then, one day, Charlie asked her a simple, clarifying question: “What are you interested in?” 

It was startling how novel such a question could be. What was _she_ interested in? Charlie had asked it in passing, making casual conversation over dinner one evening, but for Abby, it marked a subtle but significant change. 

In all the freedom and unobserved moments of her day, she could choose what she did, what she focused on. 

Choice is a remarkable thing for one newly encountering it. 

And so, Abby chose. She studied entomology. She formed close friendships with one or two older girls at the day school and one at Girton. On weekends, Abby explored the city, read books, and attended plays. She made her own rhythm, her own schedule. 

It began to seem as if things would not be so horrible after all. 

* * *

**_Spring 1934_**

Carol ran a hand through her hair. She was bored. Extremely bored. She was at a party—one thrown by her friend Mary for Mary’s sixteenth birthday. Under normal circumstances, Carol loved a party. She’d always been good at talking to people, at entertaining. It was easy for her. She felt like she’d been raised from childhood to navigate the current of social engagements. She knew how to smile, tilt her head, raise her eyebrows and respond casually—all enough to continue the conversation or end it without causing a scene. It was like conducting an orchestra, her mother had once said. 

And, normally, she agreed. She loved the feeling of wielding charisma. She loved having that magnetic pull. Tonight, however—tonight she wasn’t in the mood. 

The party was a robust one. Mary’s house was such that the parents went off into one section of the house to chat and drink, while their children lingered in another. Boys and girls from their school, some from others nearby, milled about the room. Girls clustered in corners, whispering and laughing. Occasionally a brave boy would break rank, walk up to one of the girls—feigning complete confidence—and invite them to chat. It was all very awkward, careful. Faces would flush with delight, palms grew sweaty, hearts raced. 

But Carol… Carol was bored. 

Carol was bored because she did not want to be at a party. She did not want to simper and smile. She wanted to be alone. 

She had had a terrible week. 

Elaine was engaged. Fred had asked her a few days before. When Mrs. Kent heard the news, she was elated. Elaine could suddenly do no wrong. She was fulfilling all of her mother’s dreams for her children. Mrs. Kent kept dropping hints that Carol should look forward to following her sister’s footsteps. Wouldn’t it be _wonderful_ if Carol were to meet a nice young man like _Fred_? Wouldn’t it be _divine_ if Carol would just put herself out there, be a little warmer to people so that she might meet some nice young man—someone as _charming_ and _gentlemanly_ as Elaine’s dear Fred? 

Every time her mother mentioned it, Carol wanted to throw something. 

She wasn’t even entirely sure why it bothered her so much. She had always known Elaine was going to get married sometime. She knew she herself would do the same. It just… it all felt too sudden. Like life was crashing down upon her, and she was being shunted toward some inevitable conclusion she had no choice over. She felt so far away from the little girl who had run freely across the grounds, had played out fantasy games with Abby—not caring one whit about all the rules of the world around them. 

Sometimes, she wished so much to return to that state of childhood freedom that her chest would ache and her eyes would sting. 

But, instead, here she was. Standing off to the side of a room filled with people eagerly racing toward their futures. Clutching a glass of punch like it could save her. Wishing fervently that she could be anywhere, _anywhere_ , but here. 

“Excuse me?” 

Carol’s mind pulled away from the thunderstorm of thoughts in her head as she saw a young man approach her. Great. Just great. 

“Don’t mean to bother you. You just looked a little troubled there. Punch for your thoughts?” He offered a glass full of the red punch with a friendly grin. 

Carol released a breath, upturned her lips into a smile, and tried to let out a light laugh. “I—uh. I’m fine. Really. On punch and problems.” She swished the liquid in her own glass around a few turns. Just go away. Please. 

“Well, then, how about a little conversation? I have words in spades.” 

_I bet you do_ , Carol thought to herself, restraining her eyes from adopting a steely glare. She looked at the floor instead, traced the pattern of the wood inlays with her eyes. The silence slung between them grew weighted, and they both felt the resultant tension. 

“Look. I… uh. I just wanted to come over here and introduce myself. I’m Harge. Harge Aird. I see that you’re not really… um, in the mood. To talk, I mean. And—uh, I’ll leave you to your thoughts. But I just wanted to say hello, hopefully get your name, and… um. And to tell you that you are beautiful. That’s all.” 

He stumbled through his words. Not as if he were unsure of them, but as if he were unsure whether or not they were okay to speak aloud. There was something familiar and endearing about it to Carol. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She appreciated his lack of bravado. His hesitation. His retreat. 

She gave him a small smile by way of a thanks, trying a little harder to make it warmer, more genuine. 

“My name is Carol… Kent.” Her eyes met his, briefly, and swept back down to the floor. Despite herself, her face felt the faintest bit warm, her palms just a little damp, her heartbeat just a little fast. 

Harge grinned at her in return, offering her a hand to shake. After she had taken it, he shook his head as well. He turned away from her, calling over her shoulder as he moved on, “You’re a puzzle, Carol Kent. One I sure would like to solve.” 

Carol watched him leave, suddenly feeling like the room was too crowded and her actions too exposed. She took a deep drink from her glass and let her mind slip away from the room once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels really and truly absurd to write the burgeoning romance between Carol and Harge, I will say. Not to worry, it won't get so much air time. Just enough to attend to Carol's character arc. 
> 
> Also: I find it a very odd and delightful character detail that the Abby of the books is an entomologist for fun.


	6. Intaglio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby takes a weekend trip to Paris with friends to attend a salon.

_**May 1934**_

* * *

Abby stepped off the exit ramp to the ferry. A torrent of smells washed over her. Billowing coal smoke, fresh brackish fish, salt, sweat, urine, freshly baked bread—all of it thundered her senses. The air was thick with it. Thick, too, with sounds of people bustling about, careening into one another, shouting commands and warnings and protests at a shrill and unyielding pitch. There was something else underneath it all. Something riding along the currents of sound and smell and space: Fear. Anxiety.

Patrons of the Le Havre hurried along their ways. Shiphands kept their heads down, rushing through their tasks as they waited for the cargo to be loaded or unloaded on the port. Passengers on the Channel ferry glanced over their shoulders and through the crowded expanse of bodies in front of them as they filed off the docks and onto the wet stones of the city beyond. 

Abby kept a close eye on her friends as they weaved their way through the throngs of people. The port was crowded, congested. Less so by sheer numbers than by the purposeful movement of everyone hastening to their destinations. No one wanted to linger. No one meandered or drifted. The coming war crept and crept and felt its way through the streets even then. The unease of waiting for a bomb to detonate and having nowhere to go to avoid the blast eked into the air itself. 

A man in a frayed brown coat with sleeves too short for his arms clipped Abby’s shoulders as he pushed past. She swore under her breath, cupping her shoulder with one hand and tightening her grip on her case with the other. Leaning forward, she quickened her pace, keeping her feet just inches behind the girl in front of her. 

… 

She was in France for the long weekend. Paris, eventually, after just another train ride. She had been asked by one of her friends from Girton if she would like to go. Rosie. A good-humored, boisterous girl, with a diminutive frame, short dark hair and hazel eyes. Rosie was in one of the biology courses Abby was taking at the college. From the moment they met, they had got on like wildfire. They had run around the city together, getting drinks, chatting about their classes. Unlike many of the girls at Abby’s day school, Rosie did not quiz her on boys or her future husband or some notion of a life Abby was quite sure she did not want. Instead, they talked about other things. Real things—like poetry and art and science. There was a steady rhythm to their bond. It was easy. Uncomplicated. 

And Abby looked up to Rosie. She was a mentor of sorts. When Rosie pulled her aside after class the week prior to invite her on this escapade, Abby hardly needed any time at all to think about it. 

A salon, she had said. A sort of poetry gathering of artists and intellectuals. One of Rosie’s aunts knew the woman who ran them and had extended invitations for her niece and a few friends. Charlie had been all for it. “Travel is so broadening. You’ll learn the most interesting things about yourself along the way,” he said when she asked to join the girls. 

And so, they were off. Rosie, Olivia, Evelyn, and Abby. 

Abby had recognized Olivia from a few outings with Rosie and her other Girton friends. She had round cheeks, brown, curled hair, and keen eyes. Olivia was a quiet girl. Soft spoken, but observant. More than once, Abby caught her eye and shared a smile over some insignificant but amusing comment. Despite the little time they had spent together, Abby expected that they would be good friends yet. 

Then there was Eveyln. Evelyn was a puzzle. She was a drawling, confident girl. Either older or dressed to seem that way. She slung herself into chairs, seemed to be draped over them rather than sitting. Where such a pose might make another woman appear boneless or weak, it had the opposite effect for Evelyn. She looked like some kind of queen, traveled in from a distant land. Cleopatra, perhaps. Or Salome. Her eyes were a deep blue—startling against the kohl cosmetic lining the lids. She always wore makeup, always looked like a Hollywood starlet ready for the pictures—red lips, black around the eyes, the faintest bit of blush on her cheeks, blonde hair curled at the edges with finger waves set firmly in place. 

She didn’t invite comradery, but neither was she cold. Evelyn offered a dry wit, with razor-sharp retorts and a bored sort of sarcasm. But, more than that: she smoked. She drank. She swore openly and loudly. She told bawdy jokes and eschewed the advances of the men provoked by them with a simple wave of her hand. Abby could not help but be dazzled by her. Her precocity and her indelicate elegance. 

Still, they didn’t speak much. Not individually. Not at first, anyway. Abby was rather quiet when they started out. She was close enough with Rosie, but mostly she just sat back and listened and soaked in the friendly conversation bandied about by the others. Abby was the youngest by more than a year and found herself rather shy for the first time in her life. They were all so confident—self-assured, it seemed. They paraded into the open world around them without questioning for a moment whether or not that world would let them through its doors. Had she ever been so bold? Surely, she had. Before… 

Despite her initial quietude, Abby was far from left out. If she had worried at all about feeling like a strange little ride-along before, their ferry ride out cleared away all such expectations. The four of them got on well. They laughed, made scandalous jokes, and reveled in the feeling of freedom, the feeling of having run off to another country for the weekend. Slowly, slowly, Abby felt some small part of herself begin to unfurl. Slowly, she began to smile more easily, laugh with abandon, and speak without fear of saying the wrong thing and ruining it all. Again. 

* * *

They arrived at Rosie’s aunt’s house around 6 o’clock, just in time to settle and dress for dinner. The girls laid out their cases in the guest bedrooms upstairs, casting longing glances at the downy beds before dutifully readying themselves for supper. 

Rosie’s aunt Agnes was a robust woman—tall and plump with a twinkling eye and a barking laugh. She greeted them enthusiastically, drawing out the ends of their names every time she addressed one of them. She was full to the brim with questions, advice, and little commiserate comments to which the girls could only tilt their heads in a noncommittal nod. 

As they ate dinner, Agnes engaged the girls, asking them questions about their studies and their various activities. She seemed delighted by every answer, no matter how mundane. 

“I do so miss those days,” she said, looking wistfully out the nearest window. “But I daresay you girls will have quite the adventure tomorrow night.” Her eyes twinkled. “Nat always plans the most marvelous evenings, and tomorrow should be a particular treat. It is a debut, I’ve heard. A reading from something brand new. Fresh off the typewriter, so to speak. Everyone is quite excited. I’m torn that I have to miss it.” 

All four of them sat up a little straighter in their seats, their attention rapt. 

“Nat? That’s the woman who holds the salons?” Olivia asked once it became clear Agnes had gotten lost in her thoughts. 

“Hm? Oh yes, dear. Dear old Nat Barney. Odd woman. Eccentric, some might say. But I don’t put much stock in gossip, and I do love a bit of scandal. Nat’s got that coming out her ears.” Agnes smiled, lifted a glass of wine to her lips. She caught Rosie’s eyes, noted her puzzled expression. Swallowing the wine, she pursed her lips, nodded her head to the side. “She wrote poems—love poems—to other women, see. Published them herself. Got everyone in a right tizzy.” She shook her head fondly. “Good old Nat.” 

Abby’s skin prickled. She began to sweat. The sounds of dinner—silverware tapping china, Agnes’s glass gently settling on the table, the girls shifting in their chairs—all of it was magnified tenfold. Abby’s heart pounded amongst it all. Could the others hear her heart beating, thundering? Surely. It was so loud… 

Obviously, Abby knew that other women felt… that type of way. Liking other women, that was. She knew that she was not the first nor would she be the last girl to fall in love with a close friend. And yet, for all the books she had read and stories she had heard about women like her—all those beacons which lit her up inside, which made her feel less alone while she was stuck at school, thinking of Carol—she’d never met another woman like that. Not really. Not in person. Not that she knew, anyway. Just school friends passing stories and rumors in a set of whispers—tinged either in intrigue or disgust. But never, _never_ outright recognition. And, now… tomorrow. This Nat woman… She was real. She would be there. In person. In the same room. 

Abby felt terrified, excited, anxious, horrified, elated—a thousand feelings more, all running through her mind. How was she still sitting there? Casually, holding her fork above her plate. Looking at Agnes. Breathing. How had she not disintegrated? Or raced from the room? Or sunk into her chair? Or fainted? 

Nat Barney. An odd woman. Eccentric. Abby felt the corners of her lips twitch into the suggestion of a smile. Published her own love poems to other women. The daring of it! Abby could only imagine publishing her letter to Carol. Could only imagine the uproar that would have caused. Hell, it had been hidden in a box for almost two years and, upon its first appearance out, she’d been banished from the states. One could only imagine Mrs. Gerhard’s face were she to see her daughter’s letter looking out at her from the opinion pages of the daily paper. What _would_ her society friends think of her? 

Abby felt giddy. Her head was spinning. She was quite sure she was trembling, but surely, surely someone would have noticed such behavior by now. 

Tomorrow. _Tomorrow_ … What would she do? Would she talk to this woman? How could she not? Would she say something? What did one say to another woman to signal that secret thing, that hidden familiarity? She wanted so badly to meet her. To see with her own eyes and hear with her own ears the real presence of someone like her… 

A loud clatter shocked Abby out of her reverie, causing her to jump. She had loosened her grip on her fork. It had fallen onto the china. She stared at it, laying like a slash across the white plate. 

“My dear?” 

Abby looked up at the line of faces staring back at her, at the gently creased eyebrows, at the hands paused mid-action. She cleared her throat. Her face flushed. She tried at a smile. 

“Clumsy of me. So sorry. Carry on, please.” 

The room ebbed back into motion and sound. Conversation began again. Time resumed. 

Abby released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

* * *

The faucet let loose a stream of water with a slight sputter. Cupping some in her hands, Abby dipped her face in the cool. She held herself there for a moment—feeling the burn of her lungs needing air, feeling the water adjust to the warmth of her face, feeling, too, the way the world in water was so smooth, so different, so molded to her form. 

The water drained from her fingers, clung to her skin—drip, drip, dripped in rivulets down the lines and angles of her face and hands. Breath whispered its way in and out of her, felt cold against the wet of her skin. 

She straightened her back, looking in the mirror at the face and figure before her. She wasn’t all that fond of mirrors. She did not spend time staring at herself, attending to the shapes of her own body. In so many ways, she was a stranger to herself. She knew what she looked like well enough, but she never dwelled on the thought of it. Her body had always felt more like an instrument than a treasured possession. Something to be used, something necessary to allow her entry into the world. Nothing more. 

She ran a finger down the line of her jaw. Still, even as a stranger, she could see the changes slowly coming over her body. Her face was sharper than it once had been—not by much. Not really. But enough that she could see the suggestion of what it could be as she grew older. 

All over her were instances of this transition away from childhood, little spots of evidence that separated her from that miniscule whirlwind she once had been. She was taller. That was to be expected. Thin, gangly—with a long neck and long limbs that had not yet learned grace. She had always been strong, been set firmly as if her bones were made of stronger stuff than collagen and calcium. She had liked that about herself, at least. Liked that she was set to uncoil and burst forth into the world in a flurry of power, of energy. She could still see traces of that strength in her posture and her shoulders. It was her eyes that betrayed her unease. Her nerves. All the learned discomfort and anxiety stored in those two windows. That was what people called them, was it not? Windows to the soul. Because with one deep look, people could see right in. See all or your secrets. All the nerves. Was it obvious? Could her friends tell? 

Well. Never mind that. Change was inevitable. Growth was something to appreciate. She had grown and changed, would continue to do so. She was not as flat a figure as she once had been. In more ways than one. She quirked an eyebrow at the thought, letting her eyes drift over her own outline. That was something, at least. 

Sighing, Abby reached into her night bag for her hairbrush. She extracted it with careful fingers, lifted it to comb through the brown strands of her hair. She did so hastily. She didn’t like to linger on cosmetic things. It made her uncomfortable somehow. It felt… indulgent. Not in the good way. Unimportant. 

Abby pulled at her hair with the brush roughly. Too roughly. She hissed, locking eyes with herself in the mirror. 

She froze, sucked in a surprised gasp. 

Seeing herself standing there—looking forward, dressed in her bedclothes, holding her hairbrush just so—was so reminiscent of another face engaged in the same activity. Tears prickled Abby’s eyes. 

She’d loved watching Carol brush her hair when she’d stayed over. Carol had such beautiful hair. Like the princesses in fairytales, Abby used to think. Carol brushed her hair like a curator of a museum refurbished an ancient artifact: carefully, tenderly, with acute precision. She focused on it so seriously. She used to say it made her feel calmer. Allowed her time to think. Abby had teased her for it, but she had loved watching Carol sit up so straight, running the brush through gatherings of her hair so slowly. And over and over and over again. And Abby watched. Like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. The most important thing… 

A thin tear escaped Abby’s eye, and made its way down Abby’s left cheek. She sniffed, brought up a hand to wipe the tear away, and hurriedly stowed the brush back into her bag. She could hear the girls laughing in the other room, and, casting one final, hard look at her reflection, she made her way out to join them. 

* * *

Abby’s throat felt like a desert. She kept tapping her foot erratically against the side of the cab door. She knew it was annoying. Evelyn kept shooting irritated looks her way, but she could not help herself. 

She was terrified. She was elated. She could not wait to get to the salon, and she wasn’t sure she would make it through the door once they’d arrived. So much seemed to depend upon tonight. So much seemed poised to change. She was half sure she would not be the same person tomorrow as she was at that moment. Life would forever be split into Before Paris and After Paris. 

And even as she knew, more than likely, it would not be as dramatic an experience as she expected, even as she recognized the number of life-altering moments that had already happened to her—still she held her breath as they turned the corner and drove one house closer to the salon. Still, she bit the inside of her cheek. Still, she tapped her foot. 

All in all, the cab ride was a short one, but it had felt like forever. Abby swallowed hard as she clambered out of the vehicle after the other girls. She tripped over the curb in her haste, catching hold of the door at the last moment to keep from falling onto the pavement below. She felt herself begin to sweat. Bad omens. Rosie gave her a look—something between concern and amusement. Abby shrugged, tried to play it off as normal. Normal Abby antics. She had always been rather clumsy… 

… 

The salon was held at 20, Rue Jacob—a little two-story pavilion nestled in the Latin Quarter. It was beautiful. Ivy covered, with thrown-open shutters and a carefully laid brick patio. It connected to the main house on the street by just one wall, leaving the building looking like an extended arm, reaching out toward the overgrown garden in the yard beyond. 

The four girls walked up the patio, Rosie clutching a paper invitation in hand. The house was lit on the inside, and they could hear the faint sounds of music making its way through the cracked door and over the brick walk. 

Olivia looked back at the others. Rosie grinned. Evelyn gestured impatiently toward the door. Abby suppressed a shiver. 

They opened the door. 

Inside, chairs were set up around the room, turned to face an open area near the front—a makeshift stage. There played a cellist and a violinist. Couches sat against the wall, occasionally dotted with guests chatting over glasses of port or whiskey. A table at the back of the room held the bar cart. Above it, nailed to the wall, was a plaque reading “Académie des Femmes est. 1927.” Abby couldn’t tell if the plaque was a joke or an official notice. No one remarked on it or seemed to pay it much attention. People spilled out of the front room into the back hall and out of two garden doors held open to the air outside. Conversation and streams of cigarette smoke mingled with the music. Abby caught fragments of sentences exchanged between people around her. People spoke to one another in French, English, German, Italian—and so much beyond that she could neither identify nor guess at. 

It was the most perplexing collection of people she had ever seen, and she was enthralled by it. Twenty-some people in all manner of dress, styles. Some clearly struggling for funds, others lavishly adorned. Her eyes took in the space, the people, the bewildering, wondrous atmosphere. _This_ is what she had always wanted. This was her kind of place. In all her excitement and trepidation over meeting someone like herself—again, her heart skipped a beat—she had very nearly forgotten why she’d agreed to come on this trip in the first place. Culture. Art. Conversation. Community. 

Abby inhaled the swirling mixture of smoke and perfume and springtime. It was a kind of promise land. Something that felt more like a dream than reality. 

She spent some time watching other guests milling about, old friends greeting one another happily, old enemies casting dark glances at each other. She was fascinated. 

So much so that she jumped when Evelyn appeared by her side, holding out a glass of amber liquid. 

“Here. Drink up.” Evelyn’s eyes wandered the line of people around them. 

Abby took the glass hesitantly. “What is it?” 

Evelyn met her eyes, quirked an eyebrow. “Whiskey. What did you think?” 

Abby shrugged nonchalantly—or what she hoped would appear nonchalant. She took a sip and grimaced. 

A whisper rippled through the groupings of chatting people. The music reached its conclusion. In a muffled array of rustling fabric, tinkling glassware, and heels on hardwood floorboards, the guests made their various ways to their seats. 

The shuffling and rearranging of bodies animated the room like a churning sea. That easy elegance of people scattered about had given way to steady currents of movement. Abby found herself entranced by it, unable to look away—until a sharp pinch on her shoulder from Evelyn alerted to their need to find their own seating. 

Things calmed to a stillness once more. 

A woman stood at the front of the room. She stepped into the center of it. Her hair was short, curled back in wisps. She had a strong sort of face—an angular jaw, a prominent brow, a long, straight nose. She looked out at the crowd of faces for a beat. Then, she smiled. 

“Friends,” she said by way of a welcome. She spoke in English, though her accent was heavily French. Her voice was warm, with a booming timbre that rang out into the room. Abby leaned forward in her seat. “Thank you for joining me on this wonderful Friday evening. We have a special treat in store for you. Or, I should say _another_ special treat. We have already heard Marguerite Philip and Henri Ailes play for us so beautifully. If you have notes or critiques for them, they have asked that you keep them to yourselves.” 

A wave of chuckles and amused huffs rippled through the audience. An inside joke, perhaps. 

Abby was not sure what to make of the women. She was certain that this was her. Nat Barney. The odd woman. But she was not the intimidating, mythic figure Abby had made her out to be in her mind. She was simply an older woman among her friends. She looked at the faces of her guests with unabashed fondness and familiarity. There was no sign of ferocity or daring. Just kind comfort and a note of wit. 

“I am delighted to present to you all a dear friend of mine—not a stranger to this stage—the lovely Djuna Barnes. Our Djuna has been working quite hard on a new novel. She has agreed to read a little bit of it for us tonight. Just a taste! Something to whet the appetite for when the full work is released. We will all, I am sure, be the first in line to get a copy when it is.” She smiled out at the crowd. There was a kind of weighted edge to it. Like they should all be anticipating the release very, very much. Like it would invite _much_ conversation, _much_ gossip. “Now,” she said, clasping her hands together more brusquely. “Please help me welcome Djuna.” 

A smattering of claps and whispers ushered Djuna Barnes into the open space. She was a curious woman, with a cap cocked slightly upon her head so that it hung lower over the left side of her face than the right. She wore a high collared shirt, a tweed jacket over it, and a large, beaded necklace trailing over both. She held herself in a guarded manner, displaying none of the ease and comfort of her host. Instead, she eyed the crowd, set her jaw, and clutched a notebook with one hand. 

“Thank you, Natalie.” Djuna murmured as she stepped up to the center of the makeshift stage. Natalie squeezed her arm before taking the other woman’s chair. Djuna opened her notebook, looked up and out at the faces before her for another moment, and began to read. 

Abby was transported. Transfixed. 

It was the story of a woman named Nora meeting another woman at the circus. Becoming transfixed and bewitched by that woman. Following that woman anywhere, everywhere—and feeling that woman drift farther and farther and farther away even as she desperately hangs on. 

“In the passage of their lives together every object in the garden, every item in the house, every word they spoke, attested to their mutual love, the combining of their humors,” Djuna read. 

An intaglio of her identity, she said. Imprinted. Engraved. Set in and stamped and stamped and stamped again onto everything. 

Abby knew this story before she heard its finish. Like some small spade had dug out her organs, hefted and scooped them up, held them out to her, Abby listened in horror and amazement at the story so familiar and so, so dazzlingly different than her own. 

Her entire body sat tense as she listened to Nora’s anguish at her inescapable connection to the other woman, Robin. If she could have grasped the words as they were spoken into the air, she would have—would have taken them into her hands, held them up to the light, seen how they looked as she turned them just so. 

Instead, Abby sat and absorbed—gripped utterly and entirely as if under a spell. Some part of her was aware of her friends shifting in their seats beside her, of others around them moving slightly or breathing softly. Occasionally a murmur, a hum, a light gasp answered the reading. 

“Robin’s absence, as the night drew on, became a physical removal, insupportable and irreparable.” Djuna read, bitterness saturating her voice, “As an amputated hand cannot be disowned because it is experiencing a futurity, of which the victim is its forebear, so Robin was an amputation that Nora could not renounce. As the wrist longs, so her heart longed, and dressing she would go out into the night that she might be ‘beside herself,’ skirting the café in which she could catch a glimpse of Robin.” 

She closed the notebook with a snap. Silence hung in the room. For a few moments, no one moved or spoke. It seemed, no one even breathed. 

Then, clapping. Murmurs. Comments. Noise rushed in in a gentle wave, and the room resumed its animation. 

Guests began to ask questions of the author. Conversation erupted. Abby was pulled into the riptide of her thoughts. 

Was she as desperate as Nora? Surely not. She was doing alright. Keeping busy. She had other people, other tethers to the world. She was not so dependent upon Carol as Nora had been of Robin. And yet, there was some familiar thread there… some familiar longing, a known sting that she couldn’t help but admit recognizing. 

She was almost embarrassed to do so. Nora was tragic. Her whole story was tragic. Abby did not want to be tragic. She wanted to be her own person, on her own journey. Not following the ant’s trail of another absent figure. 

An amputated hand… Carol would not be such a limb. Or, if so, she was vestigial at best. Abby did not need her. She would be fine. She would—her eyes drifted over to Djuna, standing there proud and defensive. Holding off against the line of queries and critiques. It was admirable. And the book itself—clearly it was personal. There was something lovely about turning that intensity into art… 

“It does not have a title as of yet.” Djuna was saying to one of the other guests. Her voice betrayed a hint of impatience as she spoke. 

Natalie stood once more, walked over to join Djuna, lightly placing a hand on her shoulder. “I do believe we will end there. Thank you, Djuna dear. We will all be talking about this for weeks to come, I am sure.” Natalie turned back to her guests. “Now, my friends, if you will join me out in the garden—we have another display. Dancers from the Duncan school. Lisa and Gretel have a piece they would like to show us. If you would make you way out to the yard—” 

People stood, shuffled along. Abby watched them move. She took a large swig of her drink, grimaced again as the alcohol hit her throat, and suppressed a shudder at the taste. She did not drink much. A beer now and then when she was out with friends, but she hardly touched liquor. It disarmed her. 

Waving off Evelyn, Abby made as if to refill her glass. She headed toward the bar cart. She wanted a moment, some air. 

A woman passed by her as she neared the cart. Abby placed her glass onto the table and listened to them. The woman leaned toward her friend, muttering, “I daresay Thelma will have something to say when all _that_ comes out.” 

“You think it’s about her then?” Her companion replied. 

“Of course. After she left for the states? What better revenge than to write a book about it?” 

Abby watched them head out of the doors. Her gaze shifted to the topic of their gossip, the woman herself—standing still near the front of the room, looking down at her notebook. Abby tried to decipher the grim look on her face, tried to piece together the puzzle of it—but how could she? The woman was a stranger. 

Djuna looked up, caught her eye. Abby turned away hastily, knocking the glass over with her wrist. “ _Shit_ , shit, shit.” Shakily, she stood the glass up again. Her face was red. Surely. Bright red. It felt warm all over. The little liquid that had remained in her glass spread over the champagne-colored tablecloth. The fabric sucked it up hungrily. 

She hovered over it, unsure whether to find a towel or tell the waitstaff. She had ruined it. She would never be allowed back because she had ruined it. 

“Don’t worry,” came a voice behind her. Abby glanced over her shoulder as Djuna approached her. “It’s hardly the worst thing that table has seen. If anything, it’s an improvement. Dreadful color.” 

Abby did not know what to say. She would sooner know how to talk to a sphinx. A thousand thoughts flooded her mind, a thousand possible responses—each stupider than the next. “Uh—um,” was all she managed. Worse still. 

“Here. I will get you another. Whiskey, yes?” The author seemed looser, more comfortable off the stage and away from the crowd. She watched Abby with a shrewd, amused eye. She reminded Abby of a panther playing with its prey. 

Abby swallowed hard. “Uh, yes. Whiskey.” Fewer and fewer people remained in the room. 

Djuna smirked. “An excellent choice. You can always tell that someone’s made of strong stuff when whiskey is their drink of choice.” She poured out a large helping into Abby’s glass, and grabbed an empty glass of her own, filling it nearly to the brim. 

“Djuna, darling!” said a woman on her way out to the gardens. “Come here. Tell me all about the inspiration for that _lovely_ creation of yours. Has Thelma seen it yet?” 

Djuna grimaced and took a deep drink from her glass. Raising her eyebrows in a kind of salute, she sighed, and joined the woman on her way to view the dance display. 

“I’d be careful with that one if I were you.” 

To Abby’s left a woman lingered inside the pavilion, near the garden doors. She was tall, willowy, with long dark hair and a flowing dress. She was older than Abby. In her thirties perhaps. Maybe younger. Abby couldn’t quite tell. Her voice had a distinct rasp to it, inflecting her English accent, and her eyes were the color of water. She took a few steps toward her, setting her own empty glass down on the table beside Abby’s and picking up a bottle of gin. 

“You get involved with her, and she’ll get you down in one of her books.” She looked up at Abby, smiled a conspiratorial smile, and said in a low voice, “Never date a writer. It always ends badly.” 

Abby looked down at her own glass briefly and ran her finger over the ridges of it. She huffed out a laugh, “Are you a writer?” 

The woman’s smile grew more pronounced. “A painter.” She held out a hand, which Abby accepted and shook. “Marion Dorr. Pleasure.” 

“Abby Gerhard,” Abby offered in response. She hoped very dearly that her hands were not clammy. She knew they were. 

“You’re an American,” she said. 

“Yes. I am.” 

Marion brought her glass to her lips, held it there. “And what brings you here, Abby Gerhard?” She drank. 

Abby looked back down at her glass. Breathed. Willed herself not to tremble. She raised it and followed suit. She did not like feeling pinned so. She wasn’t used to being taken off guard. 

“I’m a student. At Girton, in Cambridge. I’m just visiting for the weekend.” Marion’s eyebrows darted up in recognition. Abby straightened her back. “So, what about painters?” 

Marion’s smiled returned. “Painters?” 

“You said to never date a writer as they’ll put you down in their books. As revenge. What about painters? Won’t they paint a scathing portrait?” Abby quirked the corner of her mouth, looked up at Marion. She would fake the confidence until it came to her. 

Marion hummed out a response, pondering. “Well, I think there’s a difference. Less risk. Painters are bound by truth in a different way than writers. You can’t control the story the same way a writer can. Writers can remake the whole world if they want to. And, reading it, you see it all from their perspective. But you can’t force someone to see the subject of a painting the same way you do. Everyone sees something different.” Marion tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, absently. Abby followed the movement with her eyes. “And, then, if you go too far from the truth of it—if you painted someone really horribly, like a terrible, monstrous version of them—they might get lost in the interpretation. You’d know it was them in the work. But others wouldn’t.” She tilted her head a little, peering at Abby. The strand of hair tucked behind her ear fell free. “Kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is SO long, but I couldn't help myself. I had too much fun with it. Hell, now *I* want to go to a salon gathering. In "One Gets Over Things," Abby had a very different kind of comfort with her sexuality than Carol did. Carol is interested in restraint and discretion. She can be solitary. She can have Therese and her friendship with Abby--that's all she needs. I think Abby craves community. She likes the idea of going to a lesbian bar and seeing other people. In my mind, she begins to develop that sense here, by attending some salons. It is also one of the avenues that inspired her interests in art--another trait from OGOT. 
> 
> Some tidbits: You may or may not know, Natalie Clifford Barney and Djuna Barnes are real people. The salons Barney held were actual things that were frequented by so many famous and incredible artists--*and* they were a prominent nexus for lesbian culture in Paris at that time.  
> The words that Djuna reads are taken from her novel Nightwood. I highly recommend it if you haven't read it. 
> 
> Next chapter will be Carol's!


	7. Happy Are They Whom Privacy Makes Innocent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol goes on a date with Harge and runs into familiar faces. Later, she has a conversation with her sister.

_**October 1934**_

“So, you ever been here before?” 

Harge glanced over at Carol as they walked under the park’s entryway. He placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the space. Carol leaned forward a little. She wasn’t accustomed to people touching her there. 

She shook her head, running her eyes over the park’s sightline. It was lush—with bright orange and yellow trees, a deep green brush, and grass edging toward ochre. The air bit at her face. 

She pulled the sides of her coat more tightly around her, tucking her face into her wool scarf a little. 

It was as cold as any other October, but Carol found herself especially chilled that evening. She felt empty, cavernous. There wasn’t a reason—at least, not one she could pinpoint. She just felt as if all the parts of her that made up “Carol” had been arranged rather more loosely than usual. Like there were gaps in her framework, letting in the wind and cold. 

Carol pushed her hands more deeply into her pockets, pressing against the fabric. 

“It’s pretty, huh?” 

Harge was watching her. She could feel it without even meeting his gaze. He was worried. Probably thought something was wrong. She offered him a small smile. “It’s cold. And, yes, it’s pretty too.” 

They had been going out for a few months now. After that first encounter at Mary’s birthday party, Harge had asked a friend, who had asked a friend, and found out more on who Carol was. She had been surprised to see him a few weeks later, leaning happily against a lamp post with a group of friends she’d gone to meet for a picnic. Not alarmed, just surprised. A little delighted. It was rather flattering, after all. That he had come all that way… 

He’d asked her to lunch, and she had accepted. A month later, they were going steady. 

Carol enjoyed the attention of it. Harge was a gentle soul. He didn’t push her to be or say more than she wanted. He seemed satisfied simply to buzz around her as she made her quiet way through the world. He would talk, rattle off facts and excited observations. She would return the gesture in small comments or a light smile. It was like a dance. Choreography that they, together, slowly learned. And mastered. And grew to love. 

And it was all rather lovely. They fit together well enough. Her mother adored Harge. Harge’s mother tolerated Carol. For the most part, things felt smooth and tempered and on track with Harge. Like things were supposed to feel. 

But that hesitance, that persistent unease that had encompassed her during Mary’s party had, in some sense, never quite left her. She was still a quieter girl than she had been when she was younger. She found herself leaning on Harge’s energy, his sometimes-erratic optimism. He was buoyant. He skipped through the world carrying Carol along with him. It was a familiar tempo. A comforting rhythm. Over the few months that they dated, Carol found herself growing more and more fond of Harge. What had perhaps started as a casual activity—something to distract her, to appease her mother, to give her something easy and endless and mundane to discuss with her friends—had deepened. She cared for Harge. Truly. It was an easy, simple, soft sort of care. 

Carol straightened her back, looked more closely at Harge. He just wanted her to be happy. With him. She smiled more widely at him. “I’m sorry. My mind seems to be somewhere else today.” 

Harge’s face broke into a grin and the worry ebbed from his eyes. “That’s okay. Your mind can be wherever it’d like. You’re here. That’s good enough.” 

He was kind. A gentle soul. 

Harge stepped over the edge of the park pathway, pulling a curtain of leaves dangling down from a willow tree out of the way. Behind it was a shaded hill leading down to a small creek. Ducks dotted the shoreline and the rocks that broke the surface of the trickling water. 

“Shall we?” He asked with that sloping smile, that twinkling eye. A little daring, a little familiar. 

Carol shrugged, smiled, stepped under his arm and the open curtain. 

“Be careful,” Harge called to her, “The ground here is uneven.” 

Carol suppressed a smirk. It was not the first time she had gone off a path. Her mind drifted back to recall wilder, more ecstatic times. 

The creek was lovely, if quiet and uneventful. They did not linger there long. The ducks were in a surly sort of disposition, and the cold was getting the better of them. 

Carol nudged Harge, nodded toward the path, and they headed back up the slight hill to retrace their steps through the park. When they crossed the willow leaf curtain, Carol saw that the clouds in the sky had parted. Some warmth mingled with the chill on her cheeks. She fancied her heart felt lighter and her mood turned up. 

“I like this.” Carol said, once they reached the sun-dappled pathway. “This is nice.” 

Harge glanced at her. “Nice? Not some kind of exciting or daunting adventure? We _did_ scale a hill…” 

She huffed out a laugh. “Hardly. But maybe that is what makes it nice. All of it, I mean. The walk, you, this park. It’s… dependable.” 

Harge’s brow wrinkled. “Dependable. Huh. Not the most attractive word I’ve ever been given, but I’ll take it.” 

Carol smiled again, rolling her eyes at him. “Oh, you know what I mean—” 

“Carol, dear?” came a woman’s voice that stopped Carol short in her tracks. “Is that you?” 

Margaret and William Gerhard stood on the pathway in front of them, their arms looped together. 

Carol’s breath caught. She opened her mouth to answer but found no words at her ready. She hadn’t seen the Gerhards in… a year. Perhaps longer. Not since before the letter fiasco. 

If someone had told her that she would encounter them here of all places, she wasn’t sure what she would have expected. Anger? Resentment? Fear? Disgust. 

But Margaret was smiling over at her like she was seeing a long-lost friend. William was watching her kindly, with that patient, distant curiosity he’d always shown the girls when they’d whirled around the house laughing and playing and making believe that world was their own. 

“M-mrs. Gerhard. I—Hello. It’s… um. Well, it’s such a surprise to see you. Here.” Some part of Carol registered the sounds as they left her mouth, recognized them as her own. 

“Oh, you darling girl, how _are_ you?” Margaret stepped forward to greet Carol. 

Carol’s body moved on autopilot. She was vastly, _vastly_ unprepared for this. Dread pooled in her stomach. 

It wasn’t that she was afraid of a confrontation from the Gerhards. Not now anyway. They seemed happy enough to see her. It was more that they belonged to some small part of her life that she had firmly locked away. She had closed the book on Abby. Abby was a thing of the past. A vestige of a different Carol, a child, a series of confusing and painful mistakes. And, joy too. There was joy in that story. She remembered it as a feral, unbridled joy. It was more than she let herself feel these days—just another bitter consequence of growing older, no doubt. 

Carol’s eyes stung. She forced the knot in her throat to loosen, plastered a wide smile on her face, and accepted Margaret’s affection. A string of questions she could not, would not, ask ran through her mind. “I’m quite well, thank you.” 

Margaret smiled in response. Her eyes drifted over to take in Harge. Harge, standing there silently and pleasantly and curiously. 

Something clicked in her mind. “Oh! I’m so sorry. Mr. and Mrs. Gerhard, this is Harge Aird. My, well… Um…” Carol looked at Harge. “He’s—” 

“Her boyfriend,” Harge offered, his lips quirked, his eyebrows raised. 

“Yes,” Carol nodded to the Gerhards before offering a light shrug to Harge. He suppressed a smirk. 

“How lovely!” Margaret was smiling at Carol, but her eyes were sad, her cheeks a little pink. She straightened her back, took in a sharp breath, and turned to her husband. “Well, William, we should be off. We don’t want to interrupt these dear young people.” She looked back at Carol. Met her eyes. Smiled that same, sad smile. “It really was wonderful to see you again. I do miss—” She stopped herself, pursed her lips, and shook her head. Just slightly. “Well. No matter. Enjoy the rest of your walk.” She took William’s arm again. He nodded a farewell to Carol and Harge. 

Carol murmured a thanks and watched them pass. Her mind lingered on Margaret’s curious, sad expression. On the sentences she could not, or would not, complete. She knew, deep down, what they were all about. She understood the feeling, felt it herself. But, still, her brow furrowed. Her eyes fell to the ground, seeking answers in the rootwork. 

Beside her, Harge cleared his throat. “Carol? Who were they?” 

Carol released a breath. “Um—Parents of an old friend of mine. I haven’t seen them in a while.” 

“And her?” 

Carol met his eyes. He was watching her with an open expression. Concern, but light concern. Care. Maybe he would understand. Maybe… “Abby. Her name was— _is_ —Abby. She, uh—” But as she tried to explain, she didn’t know where to start, how to start. It hardly made sense to her, even now. Carol offered a smile instead. “She moved to England. For school. I haven’t seen her since.” 

Harge nodded. “I’m sorry,” he offered. No judgement. No disgust. Just a vague kind of empathy. 

Carol breathed out a heavy breath into a smile, “Yeah. Thanks.” She nodded in return, “It was hard.” 

“I imagine.” Harge offered her his arm. She took it. “Y’know. I had a friend when I was about ten years old. He fell out of a tree, shattered his leg. He had to get private lessons—couldn’t go to school. I saw him a few times after that, but it was harder, see, with his injury. He got angry for a while. And I… I didn’t know how to deal with it. We were never really close after that. It was a shame.” 

Carol watched Harge as he told her his story. A tale for a tale. A vulnerable exchange. Harge was good like that. She tightened her grip on his arm hoping to squeeze some support through her grasp. 

He looked at her again, shrugged. “I guess sometimes… things just happen.” 

Carol nodded slowly. Her eyes fell to the path once more. 

“Now. That right there,” Harge began. Carol looked up to see him pointing at a grouping of trees ahead that had grown braided together, their trunks engulfing each other. “I would call that a freak accident of nature.” 

Carol felt herself laughing—felt the rumble of it run up her chest and ring out. The ache that never left her remained, but a small bit of the weight lessened on her shoulders. Her brow smoothed. She tucked her face in against Harge’s shoulder, and on they walked. 

* * *

When he dropped her off at her home, Carol headed up to her room, unwinding her scarf from around her neck as she walked up the stairs, down the hall, past open doors. Elaine was in her room, humming lightly to herself as she made wedding preparations.

Everything had been wedding preparations for the past few weeks. The big day was fast approaching, and the energy of the house was rising to a higher and higher pitch. Mrs. Kent walked about in a subdued sort of frenzy, handing out critiques and requests like a flyer distributor on an opening night. It was stressful, to say the least. 

As Carol strode by Elaine’s open door, she could see her sister fussing with her dress. She was sitting on the little chair next to her window, the majority of the dress spilling down her lap and over the footstool that accompanied her dress. She seemed prick herself with a pin and swore under her breath. Carol smirked and made to quicken her pace. 

But in her haste, her foot caught the end of her scarf. She stumbled and stepped heavily to catch herself from falling. Her foot hit the ground with a heavy thud. She winced. 

“Carol?” Elaine’s voice was excited, bright. Like she’d been waiting for Carol to arrive. 

Carol scowled at the ceiling. She wanted to go to her room. She wanted to be alone to a while. To read a book or listen to the radio. Though her walk home with Harge had been pleasant—filled with more laughter and conversation than the walk out—she found herself exhausted from the surprise meeting with the Gerhards. She gritted her teeth and called out a response, “Yes, it’s me. I just got in. I’m rather tired, so—” 

“Never mind that! Come in here for a minute.” 

No such luck. Carol pivoted heavily, rolling her eyes and tossing her scarf over her shoulder. She made her way to Elaine’s room but lingered in the doorway. 

Elaine glanced up at her. She was sucking on the tip of her pointer finger—no doubt the finger she had pricked on the pin. Elaine gestured impatiently for Carol to come further into the room. 

Carol acquiesced reluctantly, “Really, Elaine. I just want to go—” 

“You can spend years and years in your room once I’m off and married,” Elaine cut across her excuses. “I need your help with something.” 

Carol sighed and tossed her scarf onto Elaine’s bed before taking off her coat to do the same with it. She sunk down onto the floor beside Elaine and her long, satin dress. The dress was pearlescent. It shimmered as she adjusted her weight. Funny how life was peppered with such beautiful, complicated things. 

“What?” she asked flatly one she was settled. 

Elaine frowned at her. “What has you in a mood? You’re not the one with a _hundred_ things to do in _no_ time _whatsoever_. Now, hold the sleeve like this, would you? I need to sew on the buttons—three along this line here, see?—but I can’t get them placed right holding the pins _and_ the sleeve _and_ the buttons.” Carol took the proffered sleeve into her hands and held it up for Elaine. It was so smooth. Slippery. She pinched the fabric to keep it from sliding out of her fingers. She couldn’t help herself but imagine herself in one such sleeve, one such dress. 

Elaine hovered over her, frowning and holding the buttons over a spot near the seam of the sleeve to estimate its proper placement. She inserted a pin, securing the button in place, and released a breath. “Okay. That’s one. Two more on that sleeve, sew them, and then again onto the next.” 

Carol peered at the button. “Can’t you just move the pin or start over again if you put it in the wrong place?” 

Elaine looked up at her. “Sure. If I want a dress full of holes. Which I do not.” She looked back down at her work. “No. Careful planning yields precise results. That’s what mother always says.” 

Carol’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling. Mother always said a lot. 

Elaine had been engaged for a little over six months now. It seemed like the moment she had said yes, the wedding preparations had begun. It wasn’t that Elaine was hasty exactly, but she seemed convinced that the sooner they were married the better the marriage would be. 

None of it made much sense to Carol. 

She rubbed the flat of her thumb absently over the pin’s head. There was a lot about marriage that didn’t make much sense to her. 

Elaine finished placing another button. She measured the spot for the next, muttering a list of other tasks under her breath. 

“Elaine?” Carol asked, her voice uncertain. “Why are you getting married now?” 

Elaine paused in her work. She looked quizzically at Carol. “What do you mean?” 

Carol shifted, careful not to move the sleeve too much. Her arm was getting tired. “I mean, you have all of these things you need to do for the wedding that you seem worried about finishing. And… I was just wondering why you’re getting married _now_ —why not later, why not wait? What’s the rush?” 

Elaine tilted her head to the side, looking at Carol for a beat with something like pity in her expression. Finally, after a moment, she raised her eyebrows and returned to her work. “There isn’t a rush. Not really. It’s just…” She took a breath. Her hands stilled. She looked at Carol again. “It’s best not to wait too long between an engagement and the wedding. Just in case.” She nodded her head slightly to punctuate her statement. 

“Just in case?” Carol’s brow furrowed. 

Elaine pursed her lips and cleared her throat. Her face was contorted in concentration, like she was trying to pick the right words to explain something fundamental, unquestionable. “Yeah. Just in case. In case he changes his mind. Or you do. Or… whatever else could happen. It’s best just to set your mind to it, get everything laid out, and get married.” 

Carol considered this as she watched Elaine thread a needle and set to sewing the buttons into place. 

“Look. I trust Freddie completely. I love him. I am _happy_ to marry him. Excited, even. But that doesn’t mean that I want to linger in a limbo state for too long.” She gestured at Carol with the threaded needle as she pulled it through the fabric. “What if he meets someone perfect? Someone else. Some… model or heiress or a princess or something. I don’t want that. So. It’s not a rush. It’s just… not tempting fate is all.” The needle passed back through the fabric in another circuit. 

Carol squinted her eyes, “What if you met someone perfect? Someone else?” She smirked. “A prince or something.” 

Elaine frowned at Carol. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t want anyone else. I want Fred. That’s why I said ‘yes’ in the first place.” She shrugged down at her needlework. “And anyway. Women don’t meet knights in shining armor or princes. Not really. That’s fairytale stuff.” 

Carol’s eyes drifted over the length of the satin dress lain out over them. A line of carefully-placed buttons ran down the front of the bodice. The shoulders were structured, sharp. Off to the side lay the tulle veil and the pins needed to set it into place as a cap. As a whole, it was an elegant piece of work. Elaine had done an excellent job. She’d had mother’s help, of course. But it was perfect. 

Beside her, Elaine sighed, “Oh, I wish we’d been able to afford a longer train. Something really long. That would have been just divine…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really interesting to look at Carol and Abby at this age. There are so many habits they have in PoS that are key to their characterization that could only have been half-formed at this stage. (Or so I'd like to imagine). It's such a fun project to write the crystallization of those habits over time...
> 
> (As a point of reference, Carol is 16 in this chapter. Everything here is taking place about 6 months after the birthday party where she met Harge and 5 months after Abby's salon experience).


	8. Her Hands, Long and Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby writes in her diary, Carol encounters martinis and celebrates a proposal

Thursday, April 4th, 1935

Sometimes I can’t believe this is my life. Or that this life is connected to the one I lived before—that idyllic little pastoral fairy tale. It all feels “once upon a time.” Far off, distant, barely discernable along the horizon line. 

I’ve been learning a lot about the horizon line these days. The thin space stretching out across infinity, where light bends just so and color changes as it couldn’t anywhere else. Marion is very fond of horizons. It’s her favorite part of a painting, she told me. I asked her about that—wondered why she would love the part that gets buried beneath all the foregrounded action when there is so much detail to dazzle the eye on top. She said that not everything was about dazzle. Or, perhaps, that beauty and dazzle could not exist without a solid foundation to build upon.

Without a horizon, the figures of a painting are floating through unanchored space. They have no ground, no depth. Shift the horizon just a little, and all the beautiful creatures in the frame topple off to the side. 

There’s a message in there somewhere, I suppose. 

* * *

Sunday, April 21st, 1935 

It has been almost a year since I met Marion. Since she peered at me with those shrewd, poetic eyes and terrified every molecule of my body. I still can hardly believe in her. She’s like a dream or perhaps some strange spirit that haunts me… in a profound and fantastical way. 

When I try to remember our first encounter, I can only think of her materializing into the space—so suddenly bursting forth, so unprecedented. Approaching me without guard or secrecy. She raced into being at the speed of silent light, gripped my lungs and heart and head in her hands—her long and beautiful hands—and I have been carried forth by her ever since. 

I visit France regularly now. Nearly every weekend I take the ferry across the Channel, take a small train into the city, and stay there for days on end. I’m getting rather good at the language, at knowing the space. It feels different, inhabiting a city bodily. It feels like you take some of that space into you. You walk differently. Or, I walk differently. 

Maybe it is like that with lovers too. Marion uses that word—lovers. It floats off her tongue. _Lovers._ I am her lover. She is mine. The thought still sent tremors along my limbs and electric pulses along my spine. Lovers. 

And so we are. Every touch, every interaction have imprinted themselves across my body. She has written into me, drawn lines along the lines of my skin and my shapes. As if she had taken her paints and brushes and run them along me. As if her fingers were such brushes and her every move was a painting in and of itself. 

I am becoming a work of her art, and I am more than glad for it. 

Subtle and swift changes have come over me across this year. Not simply a consequence of age, it is a growth of relation. Connection. I am no longer only myself. I know another’s body so intimately. Perhaps more intimately than I know my own. I have never wanted to linger on my own appearance. I have never cared to attend to the details of my face or my skin, my hair and shape—all those particulates that weave together the body through which I navigate the world. My body is an instrument for my use. It is not an end in itself. 

But Marion’s body… 

I could stare at the dip where her ribcage meets her waist meets the swell of her hips as long as the seasons make their changes. I have memorized the star charts of her palms. I know the scars—all five—aligned across her body like chapter markers of her life. I have listened to their stories. I know her face. Decoded her smile. I know her breath and its patterns. Each furl of her sex. 

Her body is an intimate extension of my body. Her smell, her taste, her touch—all known sensations that precede language, or rationality. They asserted themselves to me, and I listened and listened and learned their secret ways. 

* * *

Saturday, April 27th, 1935 

I read over my previous entry. So much poetry. I never thought of myself as a poetic person. I suppose I do read quite a bit—perhaps it is all bound to sink in after a time. Still, through the thickets of poetry, I ought to clarify— 

I am not “one” with Marion, as the preachers say. We are not a union. We are not the same. We run on very different currents. She is more than a prosthetic. Marion is not mine to control. I cannot predict her. She whirls around me, dazzling me, upending my days. 

Her glee provokes unending laughter and happy refrains. Her fears shake me to my deepest core. Her anger thunders and strikes everything. 

There is no neutral ground with her—only intensity. 

Sometimes—most times—I rather like that. I like the unpredictable and startling experience of being around her. I like chasing her moods. She can travel across them as easy as steppingstones. One moment is an intense calm, a waiting, a watching—the next she is exclaiming over something. Or weeping, perhaps. 

When Marion weeps, she reminds me of those stained-glass windows depicting saints. The ones in Ireland—so vivid and provoking. The Martyrs. Their tears. The ecstasy of their sadness. She cries and she becomes Margery Kempe or else Teresa, crying out for their gods… 

It is a beautiful and terrible sight. 

* * *

Monday, May 6th, 1935 

It’s so strange how normal this has become—traveling to France on weekends, sleeping in a little studio with a woman, attending salons in the evenings. It’s a life. A whole life. People could—do—live this way. It’s something I’d dreamed of—or, partly dreamed of. 

I don’t think I’d ever expected Marion. I couldn’t have dreamt her up. 

Even with Carol… I don’t think I expected or knew to want this. 

God… Carol. I think about her sometimes. How could I not, of course. She is in every childhood memory. She is the star of my memories. And then that to-do with the letter… It all shifted everything so rapidly, so completely. It was such a strange, crucial, and foolish thing to do. But I would not be here without it. In many ways. I would not have been sent off to Europe as a war spun itself into form. I would not have _known_ myself the way I did when I’d arrived here. Words can be crucial. I put words to my thoughts with Carol. And everything changed. It is baffling to think that none of that might have happened had I not sent the letter, had Carol hidden it elsewhere, had she not shown it to her mother after all those months... 

I never told Marion about it. She asked once whether I had been with a woman. I just told her no. I didn’t mention Carol. I didn’t know how to talk about it, or I didn’t _want_ to know how to talk about it. 

Because I was angry for a long while, I think. Or maybe anger isn’t name for it. Wounded… maybe? 

That was before. When I’d first met Marion. Now, the anger or hurt or whatever else caught up in all of those memories has ebbed. 

In the same way that I’ve stopped wondering when I will return to America. It is terrifying to think of the war drawing closer and closer, but beyond those moments of fear, everything else feels like home. 

It makes me wonder about myself and about the world. I always thought it was just Carol, only Carol. I wasn’t interested in women in that way—I couldn’t think of “women” as an open, populated category. I only knew that I recognized the feelings drawn out in a novel as the feelings I felt for some _one_. The accompanying terror, anxiety, and worry was the different part, the part that recognized how “unacceptable” our pairing would be. 

But, then, with moving… I think I knew. Some part of me knew that I was one of _those_ women. The variable that was Carol was wrenched out of my life, and I still saw myself in them. Stephen. Nat. Djuna. Marion. Others. 

I’m still not sure what to do with all of it. I’m not sure I understand the rules, if there are rules. Or if there _have to be_ rules… I know there are ways that I dress these days that align more closely with the salon women. There are gestures my body has learned. Code words to let me speak freely in broader company. I know I have learned from them. But what is the difference between habits formed and rules followed? 

* * *

Monday, June 10th, 1935 

Marion is in one of her tempers. We fought again. It is always something these days. 

When she can’t get her work to come out just right, she takes it out on those around her. Suddenly the poets reading at the salon nights are wretched. I am too clingy. My presence is a distraction. Her friends are untrustworthy. Of late, these bursts of ire have been more concentrated, more venomous. It is the stress, of course. Her paintings barely got her enough money to sustain her. Her former patron just dropped her in favor of a newer, younger artist, and she has a show in a café—the last for what looked like a while—fast approaching. It is clearly more than her nerves can bear. She is all teeth these days. 

Yesterday, I received a letter Charlie forwarded to me from father. We are on break over here. As I’m not taking classes, I opted to stay for the month with Marion. My father wrote to me to tell me that I ought to come home. 

“Home.” Catachrestic nowadays. Still, I understood the letter as less of a request than a call. And, having sent it to Charlie, I couldn’t exactly refuse. 

Marion didn’t understand. She said I was abandoning her. That now, when she needed support more than anything, I was choosing to leave her. I snapped. 

And suddenly, we were screaming at each other. So many words and accusations hurled at one another faster and faster and with such searing intensity that we could not but come out of it all covered in burns. 

It was not the way I would have chosen to spend my final weeks here. 

I may go back to Charlie’s. Father sent over a ticket, so the date is set. At least in Cambridge I can see Rosie and Olivia before I go. 

* * *

* * *

_**September 1935**_

Carol poured the clear mixture of gin and vermouth through the tumbler’s strainer, into her glass. Her hand shook, but only a little. She frowned slightly, skewering two olives on a long toothpick before dropping them in her glass. 

It was her third martini of the evening—hell, it was her third martini of her lifetime. Fred had shown her how to make one a few hours before. He’d meant it to be a celebratory gift—a drink for the grand occasion. She’d accepted, of course. It would have been rude not to. She’d taken the drink, tasted it, and asked him how one made such a delicious concoction. She was all smiles and pearls and pleasantries. 

But, that was then. That was when the evening had been triumphant and joyous. When Harge had knelt before her in her parlour and asked for her hand in marriage. She’d accepted, gladly. Harge was perfect—charming and kind and gentle and completely in love with her. She’d rushed to tell the family—they were all gathered for a dinner in honor of her father’s new promotion. Elaine and Fred, too, with Elaine already showing a sizeable swell in her belly. 

It felt the way that stories go. Quaint. Comfortable. Perfect. 

Then things had taken a turn. 

Not in any grand way. By all normal measurements, nothing at all had happened. Carol hadn’t said or done anything that would alert anyone else to the tumult of her mind. It was rather a slow and nearly imperceptible sense of dread that crept around Carol’s shoulders and down her spine. Like she was wearing a sweater that was far too tight and only shrinking by the second. Her mother’s praise felt stifling. Her father’s hand fondly clapping Harge on the shoulder seemed to thunder—even as it made almost no sound. Her sister simpered and everything felt as if they were all underwater. Echoey. Vacuous. Muffled. Slow. 

Her breath caught, her heart beat faster. The world righted itself. And Carol just smiled—tightly, with too much teeth. This would pass. Everyone got cold feet. Sure, most got cold feet closer to the “big day” itself, but everyone was different. She emptied her glass. 

And so she had made herself another. Then another. 

She was not drunk. She’d had plenty of beers before. She was no lightweight. Her balance wasn’t _ideal_ , but she was fine. 

Carol swirled the impaled olives around the liquid of her glass. She liked the dizzy, swoopy sensation of the world after three martinis. She liked how her body felt looser—more like it used to before her spine had turned to ice and her eyes had gotten sad. The world had a softer edge to it after three martinis. All the problems in the world couldn’t touch her. What matter was it if she always felt like she was playacting at life? Like she was a big fraud? Drink a martini, and it was a laugh. It didn’t matter that Harge—sweet, doting Harge—wasn’t right. That she knew he wasn’t right. Because he was who she had. And that was good enough for her after three martinis. It would all be fine. It had to. This was what a life was _supposed_ to be. Perfect. 

She felt an arm sneak around her waist. She turned her head, spotted Harge there. Dependable Harge. Always-there Harge. He would follow her to the end of the earth, Harge. It didn’t matter to him that she was a little odd and a little sad sometimes, that her moods shifted tempestuously. It was alright by him, as long as she stuck by his side. Til death do they part, and all that rot. 

Her smile slipped a little. 

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said, laughing lightly at the way she looked up at him with a confused expression. 

She frowned. Looked at Harge. Looked back at her martini. She took a drink, closed her eyes, and let out a breath. “I am. I really am.” She let her other hand cover Harge’s, threaded her long fingers with his. And breathed. She would be. Really. 

* * *

* * *

_**October 1935**_

Abby dropped her suitcase onto her childhood bed with what could only be described as an anticlimactic thud. 

It felt absurd to be back. Everything looked the same and vastly, utterly different. It was smaller. Or, anyway, it felt smaller. Constrictive, almost. It was a wonder she’d ever been able to breathe in this room. 

At once, it was... quaint. Faded and refined. And pale. She was sure it had been vibrant at one point. She knew she had loved this room, had adventures in this room, as a child. Some part of her remembered that life faintly. But, like all that life had been leeched from the very air, the vestiges of that joy lingered only as ghostly memories. The air was tepid. 

She looked around her. Walked over to the windows and threw them open. She could see, from her easternmost window, the tall white house across the way. Carol’s house. Or what used to be Carol’s house. Her mother had explained that the Kents had moved not so long ago. They wanted to be closer to the eldest daughter. The father had a different job opportunity. Something like that. No word on Carol. Not directly. 

She ran her forefinger along the line of the wooden window frame, hissing as her skin caught a splinter. She glared at the frame for a beat before turning back to the room. 

Abby was restless. She’d been there for less than a day, and she was already convinced there was nothing to do. She wished she had stayed in Paris. Even if Marion wasn’t speaking to her by the end. 

She sat on the bed. Stood back up, paced the room. She threw open her wardrobe and studied the meagre array of clothing she had left behind. They hung, limp and pitiful, emphasizing the pervasive sense of emptiness that seemed to radiate from the very walls. She let the door swing back shut and latch with a dull “clunk.” 

Abby sighed. 

Why was she here. 

She sunk back down onto the bed. It was soft. Not quite as downy as the one she’d had in Charlie’s house, but it was more comfortable than she’d remembered. The soft give of the mattress as it took to her form made her heart pang. It made her miss profoundly the thin and poking mattress of Marion’s studio apartment. It made her miss the smoke-filled, music-filled atmosphere of the salons. 

Her “friends,” her friends, her school, the salon, the studio, even Charlie’s gargantuan house… all of it felt like it was a part of her still. Absent but not detached. Like it had kept hold of some central part of her as she left. She was stretched out across the Atlantic. Her heart was a million miles away. 

She rolled onto side, pushing in the clasps of her suitcase’s lock, feeling the springs release and the latch pop. She threw back the lid, lifting herself a little off the bed for more leverage. The suitcase contained clothing, jewelry, books, and journals—hardly any of it the same as what she’d left her parent’s house with. So much had changed. _She_ had changed. She supposed that was why she was sent out there in the first place. She huffed, quirking an eyebrow at the thought. Ironic. 

She pulled a think stack of plain white books from the case, their titles written across their covers in red, French print. She set them off to the side, digging her hand under a sweater, a pair of pants (her mother would _die!_ ), seeking, seeking until she found— _ah. There._

A small silver case with engraved filigree across the lid emerged from beneath the clothing along with her hand. She pushed the button, releasing the lid, and looked at the line of cigarettes carefully tucked into silk loops. She plucked a cigarette from its loop, perched it between her lips, and dug her hand into the suitcase once more for her lighter. 

She made quick work of lighting the cigarette. She’d gotten quite good at snapping open the zippo, swiftly leaning across a table in a pinch and offering someone a light in their time of need. It always made Marion smirk… or scowl. Depending on the night and the owner of the cigarette. But tonight, Abby abandoned all flourish. There was no one who would see it or care anyhow. 

She inhaled, holding onto the burn in her throat, and leaned back onto the bed. She stared at the ceiling, an ache forming slowly, slowly, like a growing pearl, in the pit of her stomach. She exhaled, watching the plumes of smoke billow and curl and twirl and meld and dance until they faded from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but sweet
> 
> It is high time for our girls to run into one another again, so things will be less back-and-forth moving forward.


	9. The Blue of the Sky is Not Transparent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and Abby encounter each other unexpectedly at a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note: with each section break, the POV switches between Carol and Abby.

_**Early September 1937**_

The evening was loud. Cicadas released their pent-up shrieks into the air by the hundreds—the raking sound mellowing with its numbers until their chorus was but an even, tinny drone. 

It was a chilly evening—unseasonably so. The days had yet to turn their tide to cooler winds, but there had been rain earlier in the day. The droplets fell in thick, splattering drops, pulling the temperatures down with them on their descent. The air crackled and thundered around noon. Carol supposed that, in comparison to the day’s storm, the cicadas hardly counted for noise at all. 

They’d almost not made it to the party. Harge had glanced out the front door, gripping the cord of the front hall phone as he tried to convince his driver to brave the weather. Eventually, the storm abated. They had dressed—he in a crisp, new dark blue suit, she in a sharp champagne blouse with starched, pointed shoulders and a long black pencil skirt. They looked very fine and walked out the door with matching confidence. 

It hadn’t been long since they’d been married. More recently still had they moved into their large white house a few miles out of Plainfield. It was too big; Carol had thought when Harge signed the papers to make it their own. He assured her; it wouldn’t always seem so big. Not once they grew their family. Carol had wondered at the space, trying to imagine little feet racing down the hall, clambering up the steps—laughter careening off the walls. It would be something. It was idyllic—with sweeping lawns that reminded Carol of her childhood and the town near enough for emergency runs. They had a housekeeper—Florence—that Harge’s mother transferred over from her house. A familiar woman, Jennifer Aird had told her at dinner one evening just after the house was purchased. A familiar woman was best. Secrets ought to be kept in the family. Florence, to her credit, was quiet. She politely tended the house, allowing Carol the courtesy to do as much as she liked—making the odd meal, keeping her spaces organized. She wasn’t a warm woman. Not to Carol, anyway. She had a fondness for Harge that ran back to his younger days, but she seemed to like Carol well enough. For now, in that big house, just the three of them made for an odd sort of act. 

When they’d arrived at the party, things were in full swing. It was an event put on by one of Harge’s insurance colleagues, but the guests seemed to span a much wider social array. Carol didn’t recognize anyone. Music swam through the air from a baby grand in the corner of the front room. A man sat at the keys playing and playing and gently swaying to his own chords. 

People moved in currents, little groupings churning around the space. No sooner had a man taken their coats to a small side room just off the hall than Harge spotted a familiar face. His mouth broke into a grin. He raised his hand in a greeting, touching Carol lightly on the small of her back with the other to usher her toward the pair. 

A man waved back at Harge. The woman at his side looked curiously at them as they approached. They were older than Harge or Carol. Mid-forties, by the look of it. They stood close to each other—married. Comfortably. 

“Si! How are things?” Harge grasped the man’s upper arm with a friendly clap. 

“Harge, m’boy. Good to see you, good to see you.” The man chortled fondly. His eyes wandered to Carol. “Harge, you’ve met my wife, Jeanette. Might I get the pleasure of meeting this young lady with you?” The woman standing besides Si rolled her eyes—just barely. So that Carol hardly noticed. Carol’s lips twitched. 

Harge placed his hand once more on the small of Carol’s back. “This is my wife, Carol. Carol, this is Simon Harrison. His wife, Jeanette.” Harge spoke proudly. Like he had something precious on all sides. A wife to introduce, friends to engage. Carol liked hosting parties well enough—she was good at entertaining and navigating social circles—but she had nothing on Harge. Harge was happiest running the show—orchestrating conversations and looking like the most fortunate man in the world. It gave him a sense of purpose and a fulfilled sort of calm. He was a collector that way. Keeping all his little things in orbit around him, he grinned and joked and laughed. Carol left him to it. 

Simon took Carol’s hand and kissed it, looking up at her all the while. “A pleasure,” he said jovially enough, though Carol’s smile stiffened. 

Jeanette broke in, “Don’t you crowd the poor girl, now. Come, dear. I’ll introduce you to some of the other ladies.” 

Carol smiled at her, warmly this time, and accepted her arm. She was more nervous than she’d expected to be. Si had unnerved her. Being in a space where she knew no one, where she was the odd one out unnerved her. Her chest felt tight. She placed a hand over her lower ribs, hoping it would instill some calm. 

Jeanette ushered her around the room for the next hour or so. They wove between groupings of people, exchanging light hellos and casual introductions. Jeanette was good at introductions. She offered small bits of information—just enough to anchor each face to its name, to gesture at interest, without weighing down the pleasantries. And she was jolly. Carol liked that she was jolly. It was refreshing. 

Jeanette fancied herself scandalous and loved the chance to act like it. It came out in little after comments as they drifted away from one group—little dabblings of gossip or sarcasm to reveal her true thoughts on a person. She was largely unimpressed by the glint and glamour of many of the younger women at the party, found their simpering gestures secretly irritating. And she said as much—just under her breath, just so Carol could hear. 

Carol smiled at the right moments, responded with measured if sympathetic comments—all of which seemed to delight Jeanette all the more. 

“I like you, Carol Aird.” She said as they neared a drink cart, ending their circuit of the room. Her comment startled Carol with its sudden address, its candor. “You strike me as a bold soul. I like bold people. We could use more women like you.” She turned to the cart and began to prepare a drink for herself. “Would you like something, dear?” she called back to Carol. Carol murmured an assent and watched as Jeanette poured out liquid in generous measure into two glasses. After a moment, the other woman turned, offered Carol a glass, and patted her on the hand. “Well, dear, I’m going to leave you for just a moment. I need to see a friend about a seamstress, and it will be a long talk. Incredibly dull, no doubt. You’d best find something else to occupy you.” 

Carol nodded at her. “I think I’ll go out and have a smoke. But thank you for taking me around. I had a wonderful time.” She smiled. 

Jeanette quirked an eyebrow. “A wonderful time? Here? I doubt it, but you’re an angel to say so.” She patted Carol’s arm fondly and walked off. Carol watched her leave, feeling a bubble of laughter work its way up through her. 

Bold. Jeanette had said she was bold. She wished she were bold. She was sure she used to be. Nowadays, everything just felt… predictable. Not bad. Not joyless. But predictable. Certainly not bold. 

Finally, after several moments, she turned, walked a ways to a pair of French doors that lead to the enclosed back porch. People lingered there, leaning against the walls or wandering out into the dark, grassy expanse beyond. Smoke hung thick in the air, little local clouds. Carol folded herself into the space, finding a window and a nook to dwell in. She pulled a cigarette from a pack nestled in her purse and dug her hands around in the interior for her lighter. It was so dim on the porch. Only a few low lights held off the dark of the night outside. Carol swore under her breath, not finding her lighter with her fingers. There wasn’t much space in her purse for the lighter to hide. She must have left it at the house. She rolled her neck, frustrated—turned to appraise the line of people around her, searching for the right person to ask. She tapped the cigarette between her fingers with her thumb. She didn’t want to talk to anyone longer than she had to just now. 

Along the far wall closest to the main part of the house, a woman had tucked herself into a corner. She gazed out of the window, her body turned away so that Carol couldn’t see her face clearly. She didn’t look like someone aching for a chat. 

Her body was long—tall with strong shoulders and a rather flat figure. She was dressed in chic clothing—a new outfit, freshly tailored from the look of it. A bold red plaid dress with sharp shoulders, fitted sleeves, and a glossy black belt cinched around the waist. Her hair was neatly coiffed in a bob, the ends lightly curled in. She leaned against the wall with a kind of loping grace. It wasn’t a shy lean. She wasn’t apologizing for the space. She was claiming it. She smoked lazily, letting the cigarette burn out on its own between occasional drags. She seemed just to stare out the window, consumed by thoughts or fascinated by some dark detail out in the night. Every once in a while, she would brush back the brown hair around her eyes with her ring and little finger, careful not to let the burning end of the cigarette graze the strands. 

Carol took in a long breath and made her way over to the woman. She cleared her throat as she approached. “Excuse me. Might I trouble you for light? I’ve left mine at home, and I really could use a—” 

Carol’s request broke off, her words falling apart as the woman turned around—her brow furrowed in confused surprise. Abby stood before her, perplexed and bewildered. And looking completely, entirely different than she’d ever looked before. 

* * *

* * *

Abby turned at the sound of the last voice she’d expected to hear. Carol Kent stood in front of her, mouth agape slightly, in a fashionable blouse and skirt set. She looked well.

No, she looked beautiful. 

Abby’s eyes swept over her. The clothes, the shoes, the purse—all smart and fair things. The cigarette pinched, now dented, between her fingers. Her fingers—a ring. Right there. On the third finger. Left hand. She stared at it. Abby felt a thrill rush along her shoulders that she couldn’t explain. Her eyes flicked up, met Carol’s. Carol, who had followed Abby’s gaze. Carol, who was now looking at her with a wary sort of expression. Carol, who still looked so much like Carol… 

Abby released a breath and plastered a smile to her face. “Hello.” Her voice had a sick sweetness to it. It sounded fake. Too high, too prim. She tried again. “Carol. It’s been… a while.” 

Carol’s brow creased. Smoothed. She nodded. “Yes. Yes, it has.” Silence stretched out between them. Carol’s eyes bored into her, grey and bright as mirrors. Abby dropped her gaze to her own hands, to the cigarette weakly dripping ash onto the floor. She wasn’t sure how she should stand. Where she should put her hands. How she should act. It was an absurd circumstance. 

She’d come to the party on a whim, an absent invite from a friend to dawdle among some businesspeople and drink their free booze. She’d agreed, if only for the prospect of satisfying her curiosity and a sadistic urge to cause some trouble. As it was, Caroline had had to make rounds with her husband, and Abby had been left to her own devices. It was a stodgy sort of affair. Everyone exchanging tepid lines to verify their polite manners and social connections. Abby’d made a beeline for the drinks cart, lingered briefly in the hall for the piano, and, eventually, found her way out to the smoking room for a respite. 

She’d been standing and thinking ever since—god knows how long it had been. Or where Caroline had got to. Abby lost herself in her thoughts. Thoughts of Paris and Cambridge and her new circle of friends here in the states. Of connections with former salon-goers now relocated to New York to wait out the war. In many ways, Abby felt listless. In others, she felt just fine occupying herself with her many hobbies, her many friends. She found things to pepper her days so that she was never wanting for activities or events. This evening was like so many others in that way. Something to do, something to break apart the day. 

“How have you been?” That low rumble of a voice. It warmed parts of her left long dead. Abby met Carol’s eyes once more. Even before she’d been sent off to another continent, she’d missed that voice. They stopped speaking after the letter—Carol unwilling to be near Abby, Abby too embarrassed to face her and demand answers. So why was she here now? Why did she linger? Why start conversation? 

Perhaps enough time had passed that Carol figured bygones were bygones. Perhaps she hardly remembered the letter or how awful things were for that long, miserable summer. Perhaps, safely ensconced in a marriage, Abby was not a threat anymore. Perhaps she figured Europe had “fixed” her. 

Carol was waiting for a response. Abby nodded, settling her thoughts. “Um, good. I’ve been doing well. Yourself?” 

Carol tilted her head a little to the side. A noncommittal gesture. “I—yes. I’ve been well.” 

Silence crept between them again. 

This was awful. Awkward and awful and horribly tense. Abby shuffled her feet, searching around her for something, anything to say. Why was there nothing to say? What _could_ she say to someone she’d not seen or heard from in years? Someone who hadn’t wanted to speak to her in years… 

“You’re back in the country?” Carol pulled Abby from her thoughts once more. Her voice was hesitant. Reaching. Like she didn’t really care for the answers, she just wanted to prolong the conversation. _Why_ , Abby wondered again. 

“Yeah,” Abby replied. “Have been for a while now.” 

Carol nodded slowly. “Was it—I mean, did you enjoy Europe?” 

Abby watched Carol for a moment. Amidst the absurdity of this meeting and this conversation, there was something of their old selves present underneath all their words. Carol, here pretending that Abby had just been off to Europe for—what, for health? For a vacation? Asking after it all like they’d always been in touch, like Abby had just gotten back. 

But. Then again, maybe that wasn’t fair. Carol didn’t seem to be goading her. She wasn’t making a joke of the whole thing. Maybe she really did hope Europe had done Abby some good—misguided as that notion of “good” may be. And, it had in a way, hadn’t it? Europe had profoundly altered her life. Shaped her indescribably. Introduced her to whole communities and cultures. 

Abby took a drag of her cigarette—now a pitiful stub nearing its end. She shrugged as she turned her head to exhale the smoke off to the side. “It was fine.” She said after a moment. Then, pausing, she amended, “Well, actually, it was great. Really great. I met a lot of excellent people, finished school—all that.” 

Carol’s face relaxed into a smile. “Good—oh, I’m glad to hear that, Abby.” 

Abby’s stomach flipped at the sound of her name. Stupid, irritating thing. She processed the relief so clearly written on Carol’s face. She’d felt guilty. Clearly. Perhaps she’d been carrying that guilt around for a while, letting it fester. Sending an old friend off to another country would give anyone bad nerves. Abby suppressed a snort, offering a wincing smile to Carol instead. “Yeah, well. I suppose I owe you a thanks for it all.” She wished her voice didn’t sound as bitter as she thought it did. She didn’t want to be bitter. She wanted to move past that. 

Carol stared at her for several beats. “I don’t follow.” 

“Well,” Abby leaned over to the windowsill, crushing the spent cigarette butt in an ash tray already crowded with others. She kept her eyes glued to the ashtray, the cigarette butt, anything, anything but Carol. “If you hadn’t given your mother the letter, I wouldn’t have gone at all.” Her heart raced with a mixture of savage pleasure and fear and excitement. She’d said it. She didn’t hate her for it. Not anymore, but it had weighed on her mind for years, and she’d said it at last. And she’d mentioned the letter. For the first time, she’d mentioned it. Aloud. 

She let the tension in the air steep a while longer before, finally, dragging her eyes to Carol’s face. 

* * *

* * *

The evening was loud. It screamed.

And it was nothing compared to the storm that raged through Carol’s mind. She could hardly breathe. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her hands shook. If she hadn’t… _what?_

But she’d known, hadn’t she? She’d known that Abby would assume she had been the one to tell. That Carol had been the reason she was sent away. No matter how much she’d wished and dared to hope otherwise, she knew this was the way things would be. 

She just hadn’t expected this conversation. _Why_ hadn’t she expected this conversation? Because she was never supposed to see Abby again? Because Abby was a figure of her past, not her present? Or maybe it was because Carol had always been bad at uncomfortable conversations. 

She heard herself before she recognized the words as her own, “Abby, I never—” It was a gasp. It hardly sounded like her own voice. 

Abby was frowning at her, shaking her head, holding up a hand. She didn’t want to hear it. “It’s fine, Carol, really. It’s in the past.” Whatever fierce look had flashed across Abby’s face a moment before was gone. Her response was wilted, deflated. 

Carol took a step forward, touching her hand to Abby’s wrist to still her protests, “No. Abby. You don’t understand. I didn’t give her the letter. Elaine did. She didn’t know—I mean… I think she thought—” Carol stopped. She knew full well what Elaine thought. She knew that Elaine had read the letter, had understood it. She couldn’t pretend otherwise. 

She watched comprehension dawn across Abby’s face, watched as the other woman’s wrinkled brow evened, watched as Abby watched her. She waited. All she could do was wait. 

* * *

* * *

She hadn’t turned in the letter.

Some small part of Abby roared a triumphant, exultant roar. _Carol hadn’t turned in the letter_. She had wanted that to be true. She’d hoped it, desperately, for so many years. But, then, Carol hadn’t spoken to her in so long. Carol hadn’t responded to the letter at all. Carol had started avoiding her… 

And now… Now with Carol standing so closely in front of her, Carol’s fingers so lightly holding her wrist, Abby found herself feeling… strangely empty. She’d solved a riddle, and what was left in its aftermath? Just shards. 

Abby stared at Carol for beat, then, she lowered her gaze to Carol’s hand on her wrist. She released a breath and nodded. Carol let go of her, moving away slightly. The air itself was looser—no longer taut and tense. Abby felt released from it all. Whatever links had kept them knotted up in one another’s life were undone. She figured she ought to feel free, but… she didn’t. She just felt hollow. She felt hollow and tired and very much in need of a drink. 

She watched as Carol lifted a nervous hand to brush the hair away from her cheeks. Gold and diamond glinted in the dim light. 

“You’re married.” Abby’s voice came out weak, gravelly—she winced at the sound. 

Carol’s eyes darted to her ring and back to Abby. “Yes.” 

Abby nodded again, glancing down to her feet for a moment, “Congratulations.” 

Carol tilted her head. She looked sad. She looked like she wanted to say something important, something difficult. Abby held her breath. She looked at her, hard. And waited. 

A shadow passed across them as a man made his way around the porch and back into the house, stumbling near to Carol on his way out. Startled, she broke eye contact, cleared her throat, and straightened her back. 

When she looked back at Abby there was a stiff smile slung across her lips. She tilted her head politely in Abby’s direction. A thanks. “Harge is a lovely man. We just bought a house—it’s a fine place, really. Perfect for starting a family...” Carol kept talking, kept rattling off lines pulled straight from the pages of the _Ladies’ Home Journal_. 

Abby blinked. It was as though they’d been plunged into a whole different conversation, like she was speaking with a whole other person. She chewed the side of her cheek. Her jaw tensed. Anger licked at her insides. She wasn’t angry at Carol exactly. Not really. How could she be? But this _life_. This stupid, vapid, society life. It was a trap, and Carol was sunk into it too deep. Going on about her _perfect_ husband and her _perfect_ house and their _perfect_ future. She’d never wanted any of that. It was all poison. 

Abby shook her head lightly, huffing out her exasperation. She didn’t want to listen to this. She needed a drink. She needed to get out of there, away from Carol, and her trapped little life. 

Her eyes flashed. She plastered a smile to her face. “I’m glad your life worked out the way you wanted.” This time, she couldn’t keep the bitterness from seeping into her words. And, if she were honest, she didn’t really want to. She nodded sharply at Carol, forcing herself to ignore the look of shock and hurt flitting across the woman’s face, and made her way quickly back into the main house. 

* * *

* * *

_I’m glad your life worked out the way you wanted._

Carol fell back against the wall as she watched Abby walk away. Her throat burned in that tell-tale way signaling to her that it was time to go home. Time to take a bath or… something. Something to get somewhere, _anywhere_ , to be alone. 

_I’m glad your life worked out_

The unlit cigarette she’d held between her fingers had bent in two. A crease in the paper wrapping split, releasing bits of tobacco onto the floor. Carol took three sharp breaths—each stinging more than smoke could have. 

_the way you wanted._

She didn’t want. She didn’t… She didn’t _know_ what she wanted. Not anymore. She was… happy with Harge. Happy enough. He was a _good_ man. Her life was a good life. A fortunate life. _She_ was fortunate. 

She balled up her fists. Why shouldn’t she be happy? Why shouldn’t she take what little this goddamn life had to offer and hold on tightly? Not everyone could shrug everything off. Live their own ways—irrespective of the world and _people_. Not everyone wanted to be alone. 

And so what if none of it was perfect? Or if it didn’t fit the way everyone said it ought to…. It was _enough_. It would be enough. It had to be… 

Carol closed her eyes, pressed her hand against her forehead, reveling in the coolness of it for a moment. The anger abated, leaving behind a familiar ache. 

When at last she opened her eyes, Carol surveyed the array of bodies that dotted the porch. People lingering in the dark, smoking, taking a beat. No one out here was happy. No one was laughing. If they were, it was an act. 

And maybe that was the brutal truth to it all: No one was happy. Not really. Not in any life. You just took what hand was dealt you, and you lived with it. 

Carol stared out the far window at the night’s smooth expanse. She sniffed, straightened her back, nodding lightly to herself, and ran a hand down her skirt to even out the fabric. Letting out a long breath, she steeled herself—turned, and made her way back into the party to find her husband. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carol is such an interesting character to me. She is such a sad woman--there is so much going on with her struggle to balance norms, comfort, and her own desires. The way she and Abby have this intense form of negotiating Carol's self-defeatism and Abby's recklessness is so fascinating--and so, so fun to try to unfold.  
> In the book, the film, and in my little after-story, these two have SO MUCH history. And it's all right there in every frank, no-holds-barred conversation they have together. I feel like the really intense conversations and moments like, perhaps, this one bring all that about.
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter ends so sadly. I didn't actually intend for it to do so. After this party, there is a time jump of several years. I promise, things are starting to look up for our heroes ahead.


	10. Love Gets Loose and Into the Rafters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years later, Abby and Carol run into one another.

_**September 1944**_

The wood on the fence post was smooth—smoother than it ought to be, thought Carol. It must be new. She ran her hand along its surface, lightly, lightly. Half dreading and half anticipating a splinter. A few yards away, Harge was speaking with the stablehand, exchanging pleasantries about leather treatments for the leads, the weather, the steady flow of visitors that patronized the establishment. 

Carol sighed. This was something she both loved and hated about Harge. Loved because it was nice to witness someone so adept at engaging with the world. She’d learned a lot about the practice of casual conversation from Harge. She largely delighted in witnessing his ability to spin a fully fledged chat out of thin air. She admired that about him. 

But it also irked her. His impromptu engagements made them linger and delay. It was a way of drinking up life that Carol didn’t always have the patience for. She could talk for hours with friends, of course. She would have lunch with Jeanette or go visit her sister’s family occasionally. Whiling away the hours with people she knew was a breeze. Strangers, well… Strangers were tricky. So very many of them were incredibly boring. She couldn’t stand spending her time with them. Only very rarely would she come across a stranger peculiar enough to pique her interest. Rarer still were those times she would engage them in conversation. There was a delight in those select interactions—in their unusual occurrences. 

Today of all days, however, Carol wanted very much to go home. The day was overcast—stifling—with its heavy clouds draped so thickly across the sky. She felt their weight. Carol dug her nail into a smooth groove on the fence, willing it to yield. It did not. She glanced over at Harge as his low, rumbling laughter rang out over the lawn. He was so happy to be here. So happy to be living and enjoying the life that one was supposed to live—the house, the wife, the daughter, the activities, the friends. He was the luckiest man in the world. 

She wished she shared his enthusiasm. 

Instead, Carol was simply tired. Day after day, year after year, it was all the same. Like she had been cast in a role and had to play out the same script over and again. Care for the child. Dote on the husband. Care for the house that was already clean. Socialize with the friends about the sameness as if it were all so very new. Somehow, all that nothing was more exhausting than a whole life full of somethings. She felt herself waning—becoming a pale, faltering imitation of some self she knew she once had been. Day after day, she wilted. Grew quiet. Grew small. 

Harge waved off the stablehand with a grin and a hearty chuckle. He turned to make his way back over to Carol, and, as he did, the grin on his face deflated to a small, forced smile. 

Carol took a steadying breath. Here he goes. 

“You could have joined us,” Harge muttered when he’d drawn near enough to her. “It was rude of you to walk off like that.” 

Carol stared very hard at the fence, at her finger on the fence, at her nail pressing against its smooth surface. She shook her head slightly. 

“What? What now?” Harge whispered fiercely. He wanted to keep down his voice, to not cause a scene. This was why her mother loved him. 

“I just…” Carol began. Then, she stopped. She did not want to get into this. Harge had been pressing her for answers recently. He felt that she wasn’t present, wasn’t engaged. She was somewhere else, he said. She never talked to him anymore. They never spent time together. It was all true, of course. She knew it. Harge knew it. They both were aware. They were also aware that it was not accidental. That, while it wasn’t a conscious choice exactly, it wasn’t something Carol shied away from. She did not want to spend time with him. He was always there. Like yet another monotonous feature of her repetitive life, endlessly playing out on a loop, Harge’s attention, Harge’s doting, Harge’s nagging. It rankled her. It was like the damn clouds. Heavy. Stifling. Promising only storms ahead. 

That’s why they’d had the baby. Little Rindy. An innocent amidst a war. Harge thought a baby would ease the tension—give them something else to talk about at least. A third party to consider when everything was at its most divisive. It did not work. Carol loved Rindy. She cared so very deeply for her daughter. She was grateful and so, so happy to have a daughter. But Rindy did not fix their marriage. The rift grew and grew. She knew it. Harge knew it. There wasn’t anything else to say. 

“I don’t want to start this up again, Harge.” Carol finally looked at him, trying so very hard to communicate everything she did not want to start again up in her tired, tired eyes. “Not here. Not now.” 

Harge’s brow wrinkled. The corners of his mouth turned down. “Well, it’s not a good time for me either, Carol. Do you think I want to be seen arguing with my wife here? You’re not the only one that’s having a hard time. It feels like I don’t even know you anymore. Like you’re not even here. Do you know how that makes _me_ feel? Not good, Carol. Not good at all...” 

Carol’s eyes drifted across the horizon line, over fields of rolling green and yellow and brown. Dotting the landscape here and there were horses led by stablehands, riders making a casual way along paths that wound about the soft hills. It was so peaceful. Off in the distance, it was so peaceful. But wasn’t it always? 

“You’re not even listening to me.” Now he was sulking. His voice laden with contempt and edged with hurt. It was a familiar tone. 

How to answer? He was right. She wasn’t listening to him. Carol took in a deep breath, clasped her hands, and looked hard at Harge. “I am sorry. You’re right. I wasn’t. I got distracted by—” 

“You’re always distracted, Carol! It doesn’t even matter by what anymore. It is a constant problem with you!” 

A sharp silence stilled them both. The sounds of birds singing, wind blowing, horses chuffing filled the empty air between them. Harge closed his eyes, released a breath, and started again, “I swear, Carol. If we didn’t have Rindy to think about, I’d say you need help. Real help.” He looked at her, ducking his head to catch her gaze, “I’m serious, Carol. I’m worried about you. This isn’t right. Us. We’re not alright. And…” He paused for a moment, measuring his words. “I’m not saying it’s all your fault. I just think that you… you don’t seem happy. You don’t. And I don’t know how to help you with that. Not if you don’t let me in.” Harge lifted a hand to cup her cheek, letting it run down the length of her hair. 

He was a good man, a kind man. She knew that. She _knew_ it. 

Carol’s eyes moved over the lines and shapes of his face. He was dear. He loved her. She knew that too. Sometimes, the knowledge that he cared, that he did love her was enough. Sometimes it was a light touch, not a heavy weight. Carol caught hold of Harge’s hand as it reached her shoulder. She nodded after a beat. “I’m not happy. But I want to be. I will try to be.” 

Harge’s expression lightened. “Maybe you ought to get out more. Find a new activity. A sport. Something active,” Harge took Carol’s arm and began to lead them around the stables toward their car. “I bet you could get one of the girls—Marcy or Jerry’s wife or somebody—to play with you. Badminton or swimming or something.” 

Carol murmured an assent absently. She didn’t really want to play a sport with one of the women from Harge’s business party circuit. She got lunch with a few of the women every now and then. Some of them she was even rather fond of, but the thought of tittering about _badminton_ at one of those parties to fill the conversation made her ill. 

Still, she summoned her best smile and nodded her best nod, hoping very much that it would delay the inevitable tide of another argument. They came in so frequently these days. 

… 

They walked through the largest stable to pass by the horses one final time on their way out. Harge liked horses well enough, but Carol knew he’d taken that route for her. She found horses soothing. There was something to their eyes, to the way they would return a gaze. A nonjudgmental depth that simply saw you. They knew some ancient, lost art of just looking—not appraising. Of communicating through energies and the slightest movements. Carol felt held by them, comforted by their steady acceptance and indifferent attention. 

They passed three stalls. Harge kept glancing over at Carol’s face, trying to read in her expressions some sign that they would be alright, that she would be alright. Carol tried very hard to ignore him. She lifted a hand, running the flat of her palm down the nose of a chestnut horse on her left. It was a quick gesture—not enough to delay them, but enough to warrant a release from Harge’s arm. 

She breathed out, then in the earthy scents of manure, hay, and leather polish. Turning away from the horse, she made to walk again beside Harge. 

A peal of throaty laughter cut through the air. “My god. You should have _seen_ her! Just took off! Like that. I should have fallen off by all rights—absolutely would have, too, if it weren’t for that _damn_ shoe getting caught.” 

Carol’s stomach lurched as she placed a name to the voice. Abby. Abby was here. 

Why was Abby _here_? 

Abby strode through the tall stable doorway, her face full of mirth. A young kid—a volunteer who mucked the stalls and brushed the horses down—bounded after her, awe written across his face. Abby always had had that effect on people. 

Abby looked good. She was beaming at the kid, gesturing widely. She had on sensible riding gear, but it was all cared for. New and in bright colors with sharp seams. Slacks that tapered at the ankle. A jacket with filled-out shoulders and a trim waist. She still wasn’t overly feminine—if anything, the riding fashion suited her wonderfully on that count—but neither was she manly. Her sharply cut bob and her broadened shoulders gave her the appearance of a toy solider or perhaps a dress pattern illustration. Like that night so many years ago, Carol found herself surprised at this fashionable, tailored Abby before her. An Abby that seemed so far from the rugged girlchild so often coated in mud. 

Beside her, Harge turned his head to follow Carol’s gaze. He looked back at her quickly, quizzically. Probably wondering why she had stopped walking so suddenly. 

Abby looked in their direction, paused—her smile frozen on her face. 

Carol took in a sharp breath and stepped forward. She could hear Harge behind her, following her in slow, measured steps. “Abby.” She said as a greeting. Harge made a small murmuring sound of understanding. 

Abby tilted her head at Carol for a moment before returning the greeting. Carol felt her heart beat ferociously in her chest. Why? Why was she so nervous? But she knew. Part of her knew—the last time they’d seen each other…. The things they had said to one another… 

“Carol.” Abby said. Simply. Shortly. But, warmly. She smiled. “Fancy seeing you here.” Her eyes drifted from Carol to the man approaching them on her right. Harge was joining them. Her eyebrows darted up at lightning speed—so fast Carol was half-sure she’d imagined it. Abby held out her hand to greet him. “Hello. You must be Carol’s husband.” Harge took her hand. “Abby Gerhard.” 

“Harge Aird. Pleasure.” 

“Quite.” Abby drew back and cast an appraising look at Carol. “So. It’s been a while.” 

Carol couldn’t help the smile that crossed her face. “It has.” What did one say in such an encounter? After such a dramatic former conversation? There was nothing to say… and yet, of course, so much they could be talking about…. 

“Have you just finished riding?” Abby was addressing Harge now, though she still cast glances at Carol. 

“Yes. Thought we would head home before the rain comes in. The wind is perfect for a ride, though.” Abby nodded politely, but Carol could read her disinterest in the line of her mouth. Perhaps Harge could too, for he turned the conversation rather brusquely, “So you and Carol go way back.” 

It was not a question, but it lingered in the air, wanting elaboration. 

Abby met Carol’s eyes. A smile—something puzzling, something indecipherable, something that thrilled and very much worried Carol—played across Abby’s lips. To her right, a sudden burst of flapping broke into the conversation as a mourning dove took flight—traveling from its seat atop one of the stall walls to the upper crossbeams that crowned the stables. The noise startled Carol, and she steadied herself with a hand on her lower ribcage. 

She laughed out a breathy laugh, and Abby’s odd smile broadened. “Yes. We grew up together.” 

Harge put on the charm, clapping his hands together, “That’s swell.” He swung an arm out to tap Carol’s elbow gently. “It’s great running into old friends, right Care?” 

Carol smiled at him. It was a forced smile—her mind was far too full of thoughts to summon up the genuine joy he so wanted her to share with him. “Yes. It’s lovely.” 

Abby looked at her for a long moment. Then, clearing her throat, she raised her eyebrows, asked politely, “Do you ride here often? I’ve only just started, but I haven’t seen you here before.” 

Carol nodded. “Yes, we moved to the area some years back. Harge and I come nearly every Wednesday to ride. They have wonderful trails here.” 

Abby shifted her weight, looking up and around the large stable. “I’ve loved what I’ve seen so far. Good horses. Good staff. Clearly great clientele.” She smirked. 

Carol’s stomach lurched again. There. There she was—that Abby she’d known forever ago. Mischievous, playful, precocious Abby. 

It was almost painful to see that vestige of her old friend peek through the tailored frame of this Abby, this stranger. It reminded Carol of how much she’d missed her friend. How awful things had been when they’d fallen apart. How awful she’d felt when Abby had been sent away… 

She’d missed Abby because Abby knew her like no one had ever known her. It was a horrible, terrible thing to lose someone like that. To find yourself suddenly without that extension of yourself. Abby had always been there. They’d always been so close. Until…. They weren’t. Until Carol had messed it all up. 

Carol felt her face grow warm, her throat constrict. The air felt thicker, like the clouds had drifted lower to loom, to crowd around her. She was ready to leave. She ran two flat hands down her riding trousers to smooth the fabric. She glanced at Harge. _Time to go._

He tilted his head in agreement to her, but he didn’t move. “Say, Ms. Gerhard—” 

“Abby, please.” Abby said, cutting across him with a nod. “Ms. Gerhard is my father.” 

Harge’s face froze in stunned confusion for a moment. 

“A joke,” Abby clarified when the silence carried on a beat too long. 

Harge laughed an uneasy laugh. He was embarrassed. Perhaps still bewildered by this woman and her brashness. Carol mused on the sound. How unlike his wife Abby must seem. “Yes, yes. Of course. Excellent. Well. _Abby_.” Abby’s smile widened, her eyebrows shot up briefly. She was enjoying herself. “Do you play any sports?” 

It was Abby’s turn to look shocked. Carol, too, was thrown off by the question until she recalled her talk with Harge. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. She wanted to signal to Harge, to cut him off. Not now, not her. She wouldn’t want to play anything with Carol. She wouldn’t want to spend time with her. It was a bad idea. It wouldn’t work. 

But Abby simply frowned, puzzled, before answering him. “Yes, I do. I play tennis. Couple a times a week.” 

Harge beamed. Carol shut her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. 

“Excellent. Really excellent. Are you by any chance looking for a partner?” Carol opened her eyes. 

Abby’s brow furrowed. She squinted at him. “You want to play tennis with me?” 

Harge’s laugh boomed through the space. “No! No, no, I was asking for Carol.” Abby’s gaze drifted over to her. Carol felt pinned by it. “I was just telling her that we ought to find her some sport or outdoor activity to occupy her time. Get some more fresh air, you know.” 

Abby tilted her head to the side as if she were weighing her options. “I could use a partner,” she said finally. Carol’s stomach did somersaults. “I usually find someone else to play singles with once I’m at the club. I know some of the women who go regularly. But, I suppose I could try a regular game with someone.” She was looking at Carol. Carol could feel her look, could feel her eyes reaching into her and holding her there. “What do _you_ say about all this?” 

Finally, after a few seconds that felt like few millennia, Carol ducked her head and managed to say, “I would like that very much.” 

Harge clapped his hands again. “It’s settled then!” He looked from Abby to Carol and back again. “Well, Abby. It was great running into you. I’m afraid we need to head home. We have dinner plans with some friends, and I daresay Rindy will be missing us.” He reached forward to shake Abby’s hand. As he leaned back, he held out an arm to usher Carol out of the stables. 

Abby caught her elbow as she moved to follow him. “It was good to see you, Carol. Really.” She held her gaze. Carol felt some of the pressure release about her sternum. Then, Abby smiled. It was a soft smile, holding none of the impishness of the smiles that came before it. “I’ll call you about scheduling a match?” 

Carol answered her with a soft smile of her own. “I look forward to it.” 

Abby dropped her arm, letting it fall to her side. Carol watched it arc down. _Time to go._

… 

Harge was all but humming as they drew close to the car. He kept glancing at Carol, smiling at her, mentioning in a soft, sincere voice, “Yes, this will be good for us. Everything will be fine.” 

It was like a mantra—one he recited to himself. Say it enough times, maybe it would become true. 

But Carol wasn’t listening entirely. She was too busy dwelling on the encounter, the woman, the plans. Abby had looked very fine. She’d done well for herself—much of it was the family money no doubt, but there was also an air about her. She was treating herself differently. Taking care of herself, Carol’s mother would call it. But, perhaps that wasn’t right. Perhaps it wasn’t precisely what her mother meant by “taking care of herself.” For her mother, that meant caring for yourself _in order to_ meet someone, to present yourself as society demanded, to showcase your life as the _right_ kind of life—your self as the right kind of self… Abby dressed for no one but herself. 

Carol paused in her musing. Did she know that? She’d figured it so confidently in her head, but it was all based on her knowledge of an Abby from long ago. An Abby that was not this Abby. Not entirely, anyway. Had Abby changed that much? Carol’s mind reeled. She didn’t know anything about the life of the woman she grew up with. She had been so relieved to hear that Europe hadn’t scarred her forever that she stopped asking questions, sated with the knowledge that Abby had been happy. It felt selfish in retrospect. Abby wasn’t married—of that much she was certain. But, perhaps she had a beau? Carol doubted it, but who was she to know? It was hard to imagine Abby laughing, doting, engaging with a man. Carol tried to picture it, but all she could conjure up in her mind was that impish smile and its sardonic accompaniment. Then again, perhaps she had a whole circle of friends Carol knew nothing about. Perhaps she was a society woman now… 

Nerves held Carol once more as she thought forward to their upcoming tennis match. She hardly knew her. It would be the oddest meeting with a stranger—with all the vacuity of a first encounter and all the nostalgia of a lost relationship. Not to mention all the anticipatory weight of hoping this newer, older version of themselves would feel some semblance of the closeness they’d felt when they were younger. She hoped they would. She hardly had the right to hope, but she did. 

Harge opened the back-passenger door to her, closing her into the car as he passed around to the other side. He signaled to their driver that they should head home. Carol looked out the window at the massive stable doorway. She should drive more often. She’d always enjoyed it. It was such a private affair. A good deal of time—her and the road and the radio and perhaps Rindy. Whomever she wanted to sit beside. It was such a rare moment of freedom. Like flying, almost. 

They pulled out of the parking lot, gravel crackling under the wheels of the car as they made their way home along winding roads. 

* * *

* * *

Abby watched them leave. She followed their figures until they disappeared down the path and into their car.

Was it a bad idea? She wondered. It had been years since they’d seen each other. Six years. Or seven maybe. It was hard to keep track. But even then, did that chance encounter at the party even count? Wasn’t it more accurate to count the ten years since she’d left? 

It felt foolish. Rekindling an old friendship. Ten years was a long time. Over a third of their lives. How could anyone reconnect after such time. And things had changed. For Abby. For Carol, clearly. They had changed. How was she to know that Carol was… safe to know? So maybe she hadn’t turned in the letter forever ago. Maybe she’d kept it a secret. Even so. That didn’t mean she was okay with it. That she understood… 

Abby lived her life as her own—she didn’t want to waste a second of it. But she knew lesbianism was frowned upon. She knew better than to flaunt herself. Too much, anyway. She stuck to specific bars, specific friends. She had her circles. She kept her privacy. 

But Carol… Carol already knew. Or, maybe she’d forgotten. Abby rolled her eyes at her own naïve hopefulness. No. She hadn’t forgotten. She knew about the letter. She remembered everything. But, perhaps she didn’t assume anything beyond a letter written by a child. A girlhood crush—ecstatic, dramatic. Overstated to be sure. Abby watched as a stablehand dress the horses for riding. She’d thought she was in love. She’d thought Carol was the love of her life. It was foolish. She shouldn’t have sent the letter. Even now, even as she had grown and released her irritation over it all. Even as she’d loved Cambridge and Paris and her beautiful little life there—even so. She knew now that writing feelings down, mailing them… it was a bad idea. Best to keep things alive and in the flesh. Throw caution to the wind in other areas of life. 

“Abby!” a voice rang out through the stable doorway. A woman in a brilliant green riding blazer and black slacks waved at her as she neared. “Darling. So good to see you.” They exchanged a greeting. Two quick kisses on either cheek. 

“Gertie, dear. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.” Abby pasted on a smile and willed all thoughts of Carol, her husband, and their impending date from her mind. She would enjoy herself today. She would be present. Problems were a thing of the future, and they often sorted themselves out anyway. 

“Perish the thought,” Gertrude scolded, pouting through red, red lips. “And leave you all alone? You must think I’m a monster.” 

Abby grinned. Gertrude was easy. Flirtatious and fun and easy. “Yes. Some kind of siren, I think. Here to sing me to my death.” 

Gertrude’s eyes widened. Her brows jumped as her smile grew. “Well, then. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” 

They took two sets of reins from the stablehand and made their way out toward the winding paths beyond.


	11. Beginning Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and Abby meet to play tennis... and try to rekindle their friendship.

The cool of the water kissed Carol’s cheeks as she let it run from her cupped hands over her face. A small line of water trickled through her fingers, dropping onto the ceramic bowl of the sink with a soft _taptap-tap-tap_. Her breath warmed the water still clinging to her hands, and, for a moment, she fancied that she was somewhere far, far away. An island, perhaps. Somewhere warm and crowned in waves. Somewhere where time would feel less sharp, less pressing. Where the air itself would ease her rigid limbs and clear her mind.

As the rivulets of water made their ways down her skin—a few stray beads disappearing under the neckline of her shirt—Carol raised her eyes to those staring back at her in the mirror. 

The light in the bathroom gave her a sallow look. It fell down on her from above, pulling shadows out of the shapes of her face. It was a ghastly effect. Whoever designed it ought to be shot. She grimaced. She sounded like her mother—cornered and defensive. Biting against the inescapable. She sighed, allowing herself the luxury of rolling her shoulders and hanging her head. 

She was never so free as when she was alone. Other people brought out a defensive panic in her—she would cling to the edges of herself fiercely, refusing to open to the world. It served her well in a way. She exerted complete control over her social performances, swimming through interactions with an ease that suited her, that belied her secret discomfort. So long as she conducted the proceedings, she knew what to expect. Control, her experiences had taught her, was a magnificent defense. And so, it was only in these moments—slim, solitary breaths hidden here and there—when she could release the excruciating grip she kept on the world, on herself. When she could just breathe and imagine and _be_. Such moments passed all too quickly, she grimaced to herself. 

It, too, was a learned tactic. Her mother had always gotten harsh whenever she was stressed. She lashed out, withdrew her warmth, and foisted unspoken expectation on everyone around her until they left her to the loneliness they thought she wanted. Carol had discovered that she’d picked up the habit shortly after she and Harge had started their life together. He was more stubborn than her father, of course. He didn’t leave her alone quite so easily. Some part of her was grateful for that fact. Loved him for it, even. But another part of her resented him all the more. No one wanted their vulnerabilities witnessed. Women especially—or those she knew, at any rate—tried to hide them from their husbands. So careful they were to conceal any trace of unpleasant humanity. Better to wait, hold it in, keep quiet until you were alone with only the mirror for company. Or so she was taught… 

She released another breath, shaky and rushed. Then laughed. It was a mite depressing when she thought it through. And even today, with the damned tennis date looming monolithic—she felt the selfsame stress well up in her throat. She felt her shoulders tense, and her temper thin until it was the barest of things. She knew she would likely snap at Harge on her way to the car. He would wish her well, and she would smart at the gesture. Grit her teeth. Snap. 

She felt like a coil wound as tightly as possible most days. Her insides were knotted up. Her nerves run taut. She found herself more and more often at the bottom of a martini glass—more out of habit than need. The movements of mixing a drink, balancing a glass, repeating the worn choreography of lift, sip, swallow, laugh, lift, sip, swallow, spin, laugh—it comforted her. There was a security to it. That trusted sense of control. And the warm ease that flowed through her as the alcohol met her bloodstream—well, that was just the cherry on top. 

Carol shut her eyes for a moment, pressing the flat of her palms into the countertop on either side of the sink. 

It was bound to be a tiresome day. Straightening her back, she grabbed a towel from a folded pile in a wicker basket nearby. Drying her hands, she cast one more disparaging look at her reflection and headed out to the hall. 

She left the house quickly, pausing only to remind Florence of her engagement and its effects on their dinner plans. The woman nodded curtly; her sour expression unmoving. Carol ducked, kissed Rindy on the head without a sound, and hurried out to the car. 

She’d persuaded Harge to give her the car a month prior. She needed to be able to get into the city, she’d told him. He wasn’t always available, being at work or at drinks with friends. She couldn’t stay cooped up in the house all day. It wouldn’t do. He didn’t argue much. As with many of her requests, Harge adopted a half-amused, half-exasperated demeanor. He thought she was eccentric, enigmatic. Such were the prices of her eccentricities. 

She loathed his awe of her. Even as it offered her a safety—like never really having to explain her whims or her activities for they, too, were looped into the thrilling mystery of her. And, indeed, around other company it fueled the power she knew she had over others. She could smile instead of answering and feel the affective shift in the air as those who saw it wondered at her. She liked that power around others. But home wasn’t a space for others. Home was supposed to be… different. Safe. Close. Harge’s sense of awe, of distance—it smarted. It kept them apart. It was a kind of safety, the distance, but it was a lonely safety. She didn’t want to be a mystery at home. She wanted… 

What did she want? 

Not this. 

* * *

By the time Carol arrived at the tennis courts, her palms had begun to sweat. She cleared her throat for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. Ran her hand down her skirt. It was pleated and resisted her move to smooth it. She frowned and cleared her throat again. Tennis outfits were ridiculous things. Flowing and silly and ridiculous. She remembered wearing such skirts when she was younger—something cotton and soft. Something that lay lightly on your body, that didn’t hold you back, that allowed for running and twirling around in the grass. But that was then. She wore different things now. Structured things. Gone were the days of wild abandon. She had moved on to long, fitted skirts and thick fabrics. She wanted her clothing to do predictable things, to answer faithfully her ministrations. 

As she walked, the gravel crackled beneath her feet. It was an odd sort of soundtrack—it neither eased her tension nor particularly worsened it. It was just… suited. She and gravel suited one another. A smile quirked the corners of her lips in a sharp twitch. 

The pit of her stomach turned, and a tickling thrill hovered just behind her sternum. She wasn’t afraid. She firmly believed she was not afraid. 

It wasn’t fear. No, this was… nerves. Nostalgia. Embarrassment. Anxiety. A kind of terror that, unfortunately, didn’t blind you to your circumstances. Instead, she watched the slow crawl of her surroundings pull closer to her as she walked through the doors of the court’s facility. Things rushed at her—but slowly. Slowly enough that she could stew in their approach. 

Had her breathing always sounded so loud? And her footsteps, were they always so heavy? 

Carol shifted her grip on her racket. She felt ridiculous, poorly dressed and poorly prepared. None of it was true, of course. She knew this. She knew her exercise attire was perfectly acceptable and her technique more than adequate. By all accounts, her backhand swing was enviable. She let out a steadying breath. She could do this. 

She could do this. 

She could do this. 

She nodded lightly to herself, passing through the threshold of the locker rooms. Pale blue tiles rushed past her as she moved, step after step after step. 

She _could_ do— 

“Carol!” Abby called out. She stood by a bench upon which sat another woman. Her left leg was propped up against the edge of the bench, her racket arm slung across it. The woman beside her was laughing—pressing a hand to her lips to stifle a smile, glancing off to the side as she willed the flush of her cheeks to abate. 

Carol felt a strange sense of déjà vu. She knew that feeling. She’d been that girl. Or… so she thought. She was once again struck by the absurd twinning she seemed to feel whenever she ran into Abby—that mixture of complete familiarity and utter newness. She didn’t really know Abby. They hadn’t kept in touch; she knew nothing of her life since she’d left so many years ago. And yet… there was a familiar rhythm to her words—some timbre that wrapped itself around Carol. It was warm. So strange and warm. 

Time snapped back into place. Carol’s eyes drifted from the laughing woman back to Abby. Bewildered, she offered a smile. Raised a hand in greeting. 

A moment of silence passed between them all. It was brief, but it weighed on the space. Carol’s eyes once again drifted to the woman sitting beside Abby. She was pursing her lips, subduing the smile that still tried to break through. Carol had interrupted their conversation. She could feel the remnants of it reverberating through the room. 

The tiles on the wall held their stillness and shown brightly with the white light of the overhead lamps. It washed the room in a paler sheen than the sun outside, sapping some of the color. Carol shifted, letting the racket in her hand hang down and tap against her calf. 

Finally, Abby took in a breath and nodded with a renewed burst of energy. “Carol, meet Renee. Renee here plays doubles. I join in sometimes when they need an extra hand.” 

“When we don’t mind losing,” the other woman added with a smirk. 

“Oh!” Abby gasped and smacked her lightly on the shoulder with her racket, eliciting more laughter. “Bite your tongue!” She looked over at Carol again, “I’m a good luck charm.” 

Carol’s lips quirked at that familiar bravado. That—that was what she knew. 

Renee let out a booming laugh, throwing her head back. Carol nearly jumped at the sound. She was used to quieter women. Women who wrapped themselves in a shroud of subtlety like it was armor. Loudness was too brash, too open, too careless in her world. But, then again, this was not her world. 

Her laughter subsiding, Renee gave a loud, musical sigh. “Well, Gerhard.” She slapped her knees, rising from the bench, “It was good catching up with you. Give me a ring sometime. We’ll have you over for dinner.” She gathered her things into her bag and swung it over her shoulder. She leaned in toward Abby, “George has decided to _broaden his horizons_ or something dreadful so I can’t promise anything _edible_ , but it certainly won’t be dull!” 

Abby beamed, “It never is with you two. Take care now.” 

Renee offered Carol a warm nod as she walked past her and through the doorway beyond. Abby and Carol watched her until she was out of sight. 

Carol turned, looking around the room again. The blue tiled walls gave the place an open, cheery look, despite the pale lighting. The room was cool—a breeze drifted in through the doorways, circulating about the space. Rows of tall metal lockers lined the walls, done over in a slate gray. Two thin wooden benches, lacquered and shining, spanned the length of the room and sat about two feet in front of either wall. And, there, again—standing beside one such bench was Abby. 

Abby who now looked at the floor. Abby who was played absently with the worn end of her racket’s handle. Abby who looked nervous now in the face of just Carol. She stood, quiet. Her posture was strong—it was always strong, Carol suspected—but it was not bold. It was not slung easily. It was braced, careful, unsure. More closed than Carol ever remembered seeing. 

Abby nervous of Carol. Carol nearly laughed aloud. As unlikely a possibility as anything else—as running into her all these many years later. 

Carol looked at Abby, studied her careful posture, and caught her eyes as the woman finally looked up from the floor to meet her gaze. Carol smiled. Abby returned the gesture. Then, sure as a music box wound up to life, she slung her hips and cocked her head and quirked her mouth in a smile that very nearly reached her eyes. “Shall we?” 

* * *

They played for over an hour, pausing now and then to take a break for water and breath. Playing with Abby was strange. It was so different from their youthful jaunts through open grass with carefree abandon. Tennis with this Abby had more caution, more strategy. As children, they’d played through fairytale stories—Abby the knight, Carol the princess. Both of them as hunters chasing some mythical prey. Both warriors or artists or adventurers of some sort. Abby would set the stage and on they would go. They’d rarely, if ever, played adversaries. Conspiratorial, not competitive—that was their tone as children. 

Their games now were different. It was a dance—a competition, yes, but one where winning was less about points or volleys or hits than it was about the slow unfurling of themselves in the presence of the other woman. It was a small smile from Abby as she first met Carol’s skill—the younger woman returning a shot with surprising alacrity. It was, too, Carol’s unintentional burst of laughter as she tripped while swinging, very nearly toppling over the net as she did so. It was the gradual ease of meeting one another again, anew. Of beginning again. 

Well after they had their fill of playing, once their bodies were tired and the day’s heat reigned supreme, they sat together on the benches in the locker room. They exchanged a series of shallow pleasantries as they packed away their things. Then, they just sat. Lingering. Breathing. A soft, easy silence—so very different from the one that began the day—rested between them. 

Carol ran her eyes over the lines of lockers, over the crisp white caulk lining the tiles of the floors and the walls, over the honey-colored wood of the benches. She did not look at Abby but she could sense the other woman’s presence, her mutual stillness. She could hear, too, when Abby stirred at long last. Gripping the ends of the small towel draped around her neck, and turning to Carol, she said, “Well, I should go shower, but… this was fun.” 

Carol smiled, met her eyes, and nodded. A small laugh escaped her lips. “It _was_ fun.” It felt like a surprising admission. 

Abby’s lips turned up. “I’m free the same time next week.” She stood, pulling at either end of the towel. “If you want to do this again, I mean.” 

Carol looked up at her. Abby’s smile covered something else, a hesitancy maybe. Nerves undoubtedly. It was such a strange dance they were doing. Such a strange thing to meet again. To just… go on. As if they were new friends. Or as if none of the things that had happened to them had happened. She wondered for a moment at the history that trailed behind them. At whether they ought to talk about it or just let things be. To start over. 

It was easier said than done. How did someone simply start over? How was that possible for them when Abby’s face, changed as it may be, was still so familiar to her? When so many things they had said to one another were left, ringing, in the air around them… 

Abby’s head tilted a little. Carol could see, too, that she wanted this. She wanted to see her again. Carol felt it, too. Beyond all the confusion and familiarity and newness, there was just warmth. A comfort. A suitedness. She liked her. It was so simple, in a way. 

And so, she smiled up at the puzzle of a woman she knew as a girl and said, “I’d like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience during my little writing sabbatical. With COVID stress, academic semesters unwinding, and general holiday busyness, I did not have time to keep writing. Hopefully, now, I'll have more time to write about this lovely Highsmithian storyverse we're all so unendingly fascinated with.


	12. Things Reflected in a Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol reflects on her experience reacquainting with Abby, and, wanting a closer friendship, she invites her out to dinner.

It was in the quiet moments—those tucked in between big, bold events—wherein one could find their footing and gage their circumstances. Those seconds, minutes, punctuated only by breath. Breath that was centering, rooting, strengthening. The orbit of the world would slow, time itself would break and pause and wait. And everything that mattered, that really truly mattered, would surface. Make itself known. Glitter in the dark.

Carol checked the collar of her cotton tennis outfit in the small hall mirror, running her fingers over the seams and folds to flatten the fabric. It looked very fine indeed. It was new—something she’d picked up the day before. Abby’d worn one like it for their matches the past few weeks. A shirt smartly cut to fit and short pants—all cotton, all soft and smart and crisp and new. Very fine indeed. 

A smile played about Carol’s lips as she surveyed the look of it. Who knew sports attire could suit? Not that she would wear it out. No, she had packed clothing to change into for after the match. Still, it was a far cry improved from what she’d had before. She turned to the side and ran her eyes over her outline, lifting a hand to smooth out the gentle curl of her hair as it met her shoulders. She ought to get it cut. Something a little shorter, perhaps. Ah well, no matter. 

She worried the inside of her cheek for a moment. What else, what else. Lipstick? Surely. Something subtle—not too daring. Just smart. Abby was always so smartly dressed, and, as if they were replaying a game from their youth, Carol felt herself eager to catch up. She knew she looked well enough, but she found herself energized and inspired by Abby’s wardrobe. There was an audacity to it. A boldness. Abby went for bright colors and masculine shapes in her clothing. She encouraged a bit of flippant risk. 

Carol released a breathy laugh to herself. Flippant risk had always been Abby’s forte. 

It was so odd now. Being _back here_ , being newly reacquainted with her childhood friend. It was odd to spend moments lingering in front of a mirror to check her appearance before a tennis match, to worry about looking impressive and modern enough ahead of meeting up with this woman who was so very familiar and so very much a mystery to her, all at once. Of course, the energy of that anticipation—the way even now her hands found themselves hovering about her to fix, adjust, and fine-tune her appearance in an act of compensation meant to still her electric nerves— _that_ was something she knew all too well. She’d felt it before every school holiday, every scheduled playdate. 

Abby had always had a velocity to her. Something persuasive. It wasn’t just a magnetism. People didn’t fawn over her, not exactly. It was more that her rhythms and momentums overpowered that of other people. People wanted to impress her, to receive her favor, to align with her audacity. Or, at any rate, Carol did. She always had. Some things, it seemed, did not change with time. 

There was that familiar hum of nerves and excitement she had known so intimately as a girl heading out to see her best friend. There, too, was that eagerness, that feeling of being rather young and exposed and privileged to know Abby. It was all vibrant and thrumming—even now. It made the day feel sharper, stronger, drawn out in bolder strokes. And, given the tone of her usual daily affairs, that in itself felt like a miracle. 

It was with light bitterness that Carol recognized Harge had been right. Well, right and so very mistaken. Playing tennis with Abby _had_ done her good. She felt more spirited than she had in a while. At once, however, her happiness only accentuated the dissatisfaction she felt around Harge. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong. It was… simply excruciating. The life that he so clearly loved and had. The pleasure he got simply from being a family man with a family home and a wife and a child and a job. Carol could feel his satisfaction suffuse every corner of their house. He would sit, after dinner, upon the couch, smiling out at Rindy playing upon the floor. His legs crossed, a pipe in one hand. The other draped over the couch’s back. His arms spread so like he was grasping the full of their life. Holding it to him. Carol supposed the life they led was a success, in a way. For him. It was everything he had hoped for, everything his parents might have wished he’d have. And he was happy. Carol couldn’t fault him for being happy. 

It was just that she was not. Happy. 

She felt a mounting irritation, bordering on erethism. Like her skin was too tight, the room too stuffy, the world too small. She couldn’t stand Harge’s happy smile some days. Deep in her breast lay a violent impulse, wishing fervently to reach out and slap the smile from his face, to claw her way out of the stifling box of their life together. To release a primal scream or a roar or something gruesome and terrifying. Something to set her free. 

It was not that she wished him unhappiness. It was that his happiness did not fit her anymore and yet required her compliance, her _placidity_ , to endure. It was that she had married him, had vowed to honor and love and obey until death did they part. _Surely_ , that had to mean something. She repeated it repeated over and again to herself like a supplication. _Surely_. 

So, she did not scream. She simply smiled a smile of her own—so tight it threatened to snap. Despite her best efforts, that tight smile simply invited more problems. It was not good enough, not easy enough. Not pleased enough with its circumstances. And oughtn’t she be grateful? Ought not she feel fulfilled—with this family and house and life? Wasn’t Harge giving her everything she could ever want? 

The fault, clearly, must lie with her. She was somehow wrong. She was off, because certainly the setting was not. No, there was something wrong with her, and once Harge fixed it, everything would be fine. They simply needed an adjustment. Carol felt a wry smile turn her lips. A whole series of adjustments had plagued her life of late. Desperate changes offered by a desperate man simply trying to appease his wife so she might settle and smile brightly and _be_ —in a way that suited his happiness. It eluded him that the whole damn thing was broken. That adjustments weren’t working, wouldn’t work. They simply weren’t right for one another. Of course, she’d known that for a while. 

Still, she would accept the doting and the desperation and the blame for Rindy. The little girl was everything to Carol—she was a balm. Moments alone with Rindy were some of Carol’s favorites. They were moments where Carol could hold her daughter close, shut her eyes, and pretend that the future laid out before her wasn’t bound to be a disappointment. That it was full of promise. That it wouldn’t, in the end, suffocate her, too. 

As they continued to meet up week after week for tennis matches, Carol had felt the vibrancy of her moments with Abby ever more strongly. Her life, it felt, had split into two rhythms, two tones. The hyper-saturation of her time spent with Abby—that one, blissful day every week that was somehow relaxing and terrifying, all at once—threw the pallor of the rest of her days in sharp relief. As much as she enjoyed watching over Rindy, the role of witness seemed all she was suited for at home. She wandered the halls of their house, or else drove to the city, exchanged inane pleasantries with the women of Harge’s business party circuit—finding delight in the crumbs of wielding scandalous comments and mysterious smiles. Again and again and again. Unendingly, the days spilled over one another, blending together. She felt folded in two. Felt bereft of air—until, each week, that one bright day she might go to the courts and continue the odd little dance of reacquaintance. Relief and feeling flooded her. The knots of trepidation that so bound Carol leading up to their first tennis date had unbundled, replacing anxiety with excitement, giddiness, and a soothing sort of joy. It buoyed her for days after—wilting only in time for the weekend, when Carol felt the dullness of her life most clearly. 

… 

So much was the difference between these modes of life, so sharply was that difference felt, that Carol had made up her mind to invite Abby out after their match—to begin spending more time together outside the boundaries of the tennis courts. It was a small thing, the desire to see someone else more often than one already was. But still the thought, the realization, was enough to make Carol’s heart skip a beat. It was the past come knocking. Tapping lightly—just enough to remind her of their history. 

Such tapping became a familiar beat, syncopating her steps and words. And so, after their fifth set of tennis games, Carol turned to Abby in the locker room and asked her to dinner. A casual, quiet proposal. Spoken with so much hesitancy and couched in _maybe, sometime, possibly_. Even so, posing the question aloud invited a certain terror Carol hadn’t felt in years bubble up in her stomach. 

Abby had paused her work of stowing her racket into a carrying case. She looked contemplative, tilted her head just so, and eyed Carol. A faint smile appeared. “Dinner?” She smiled. “Sure,” she offered in a voice that mingled a casual ease with soft delight. “Tonight?” 

Carol shrugged and nodded quickly enough for the movements to muddle together. “I—yes. If that’s…. something you’d like to… I just think it would be nice,” she added, “To catch up.” 

Abby held her stance, poised and watchful, for a moment longer before rolling her shoulders and resuming her motion. “Yeah, okay. Great.” She tilted her head to the side with a smile. “Dinner sounds nice. I didn’t have any plans set in stone, anyway.” 

Set in stone? Carol’s brow wrinkled briefly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I don’t want you to cancel—” 

Abby waved away her words. “It was nothing.” At Carol’s expression, she pressed again, “ _Really_. Carol, it’s fine. I was considering ringing up a friend for drinks. Now, I don’t need to as I’ll go out and have drinks with you.” 

Carol was placated somewhat. She had noticed, in their brief encounters and briefer conversations, that Abby was never wanting for company. A great many women seemed to revolve in an unending orbit around Abby, showing up to appease her whims and fill her empty afternoons. She’d lost track of the names after the first few. Carol supposed she ought to count herself among the masses. It was an… odd thought. Especially as, even now, she couldn’t help but wonder back to that letter, those admissions. Were any of those women…. Well. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions. 

“Where did you want to go?” Abby’s voice broke through Carol’s reverie. Carol looked at her blankly for a moment before, coming back to herself, she managed a warm shrug. 

She smiled a little despite herself. “I hadn’t gotten that far. I—hmm. I’m sure I can think of somewhere.” She tapped her forefinger against her thigh, pondering the options. There weren’t many she could think of, and even fewer of that paltry sum were suitable. She didn’t travel to the city as often as she’d like. When she did, it was to shop or to meet friends at clubs, dining rooms, and the like. Those were open, social spaces crowded with people. Better suited for large parties. No, that wouldn’t do. Carol tapped again. She really ought to know— 

“There is a Schrafft’s off 23rd street.” Abby offered. “A bit of a drive.” Again, she tilted her head in consideration. Her hand rubbed the back of her neck absently, “But, well worth it, I think.” She straightened, moved to fold her tennis clothes into a bag. “And, anyway, we have time.” 

Indeed, they did. It was barely 2 o’clock. 

* * *

They agreed to drive separately to Carol’s house, drop off her car, and travel together to the restaurant. 

As Carol gripped the steering wheel, guiding it along the road toward the house she called home, she could not help the wandering of her eyes—darting ever to the rearview mirror, catching there glimpses of Abby’s car following her along on the road. It dipped in and out of sight as they wound around coiling roads or rose above a hill line. So oddly like them, to follow, to find one another again and again. Carol noted a sharp flutter of worry that raced up her spine as she turned an abrupt corner and five full seconds went by without sight of Abby before, finally—wonder of wonders—she reappeared. Steadily. In tow. Of course, such sharp worry was just because Abby did not know the way to Carol’s house, that Carol was supposed to be guiding her. Of course. And yet, that sharpness held within it the barest echo of a loss she’d felt before. A loss she’d long since put to bed. Carol pushed her tongue against the inside of her bottom teeth and sucked in a quick breath. She was, once again, struck with the absurdity of things, of re-knowing. Her hands ran over the wheel as she turned onto her street. She released her breath with a quiet huff. 

She pulled into her drive at last, listening to the crackling of gravel beneath her tires. Like electrical firings. Like the opening a phonographic record. Like static before a radio program. She slowed, stopped, turned the key to still the engine, and silenced the static. 

Home. She glanced over the edifice before her—so tall and neat and still. Trim bushes shaped in crisp squares. Flowers lying neatly in their beds. Shutters bordering each window, not a chip in the paint, performing openness as if they had any other choice in the matter. Harge would be out, of course. Rindy, too. She had a playdate. It was important to foster friendships for little girls… 

Gravel made itself known again, and Carol’s eyes returned to the rearview mirror, watched the slow turn of Abby’s car as it slid up the drive. It disappeared from her mirror and passed by the windows beside her. Her eyes met Abby’s. They had arrived. Abby raised an eyebrow at her. 

Exiting the car, Carol turned toward the house once more. Curtains fluttered in a window on the second floor. The hall, she guessed. Florence peered down at her, her face largely obscured by the sky’s reflection on the glass, the line of wood segmenting the glass panes. Carol could make out her scowl, her shrewd expression just barely from the shadows that lined her face. She nodded up at Florence. Threw up a hand in a limp acknowledgement. The curtains rippled again, and the woman withdrew. 

Well then. Carol blinked, shut the car’s door, and made her way across the crackling drive to Abby’s car. She wondered briefly whether she ought not check in with Florence. Perhaps the woman was headed her way, coming down the stairs with some message or note. Something from Harge, perhaps. She pinched her lips and cast another steely glance at the house. To hell with it. To hell with Harge. She opened the passenger door to Abby’s car, and they started off. 

* * *

There was a soft peace to the car ride into the city. Carol and Abby exchanged a few comments—incidental pleasantries and notes on their surroundings—but mostly they just sat. They turned on the radio, invited the lilting voices and slow brassy instruments accompanying them to fill the air. Meanwhile, Abby watched the road and Carol took in the slow roll of the landscape around them. Always on her periphery was Abby herself, sitting contently, humming occasionally along with the melodies that spilled out of the car’s radio, always slightly offkey. 

It was a particular kind of intimacy, that quiet closeness. Carol couldn’t help but muse on the sensation that they had done this all before, long ago. She remembered sitting like this when they were children on rainy days, when the outdoors were expressly forbidden by their parents. Too much mud, her mother said. So, instead, they whittled away hours at a time just being together, enjoying the company of the person who knew them best—Carol laying on her stomach on her bed. Abby splayed out on her back on the floor. The two of them just together. Making the odd statement, sparking conversations that would ignite and fritz out in moments. Reading or listening to the radio. Abby drawing her maps. Carol brushing her hair. Sometimes Abby would tell Carol a story. Sometimes it was the other way around. It was always so still, so simple. Like it was the being-together that mattered more than any activity or statement. 

Carol had loved those moments. They sat nestled in between the whirlwind of activities and play of dashing across the lawns and tumbling into the grass. The flurry and fanfare was wonderful—Carol loved it, too. But, there was something special about the quiet moments. Something inexpressibly rare and perfect about them. 

Carol let out a long breath and glanced over at Abby. 

She had changed so much. Carol noted it again and again, each time they saw one another. The fashionable, lanky woman beside her was such an extension, a transmutation, of the gangly girl covered in dust and mischief that she’d known so very well. As brash as she could be, there was a grace in Abby’s steps that she had gained over the years. It wasn’t quite caution. Perhaps it was release. She had learned the equations of her velocity. She still raced and sped and burst and cantered—her driving through the city was a terrifying demonstration of that—but it was more directed now. More intentional. 

And sure. Sure of herself. Carol watched the ways Abby handled the steering wheel—one hand on the upper right side of the wheel. The other draped on the lower left. There was a strength there, an assurance. She was not gripping the wheel. She was not fighting for control over the car’s place on the road. She guided. Let flow. Made small corrections where she needed to and not before. Carol threaded her fingers in her lap and looked down at her hands. 

How did one learn to be comfortable with oneself, she wondered? How did you grow that muscle? 

* * *

Schraftt’s was moderately busy when they arrived. A smattering of women dotted the tables in groups of twos and threes. The gold-plated room moved like well-oiled clockwork—waiters making rounds to tables, patrons moving to and from designated seating every now and again. 

Carol and Abby were directed to a table near the northernmost wall, a good place. Not too crowded. They sat on either side of a small table, settled, and attended to the heavy cardstock menus placed before them. The first few minutes passed this way. As they went, Carol felt that familiar prickling of nerves run up her spine. Perhaps this was not such a good idea. She glanced up at Abby, caught the woman’s eye, and smiled what she hoped was a warm and vague smile. 

Abby returned the smile with focused attention. “So. What are you having tonight?” It sounded like a dare. She held her menu between her thumb and forefingers, propping it up, tapping it against the table, and letting it fall—slowly, buffered as the air pushed against the flat of its surface. It drifted and settled onto the table. 

Carol waited until it lay still against the lacquered wood. “Ah, I’m thinking about the salmon. It looks… good.” The end of her words felt thin. As if, halfway through saying them, she’d recognized the weakness of the statement, of the conversation. Why did she ask Abby to dinner? Why did she think this would be easy or fluid, like slipping on an old sweater— 

“Hmm,” Abby hummed, her eyebrows spiking up briefly. “I have heard the fish here is good.” There was something of a smirk about her lips. And something else. Carol couldn’t decipher it. 

A waiter arrived beside their table, offering another, shorter menu. Drinks. Carol exhaled. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been more grateful to speak to a stranger. “A martini,” she requested, hoping that she didn’t sound too desperate. She hadn’t even glanced at the menu. The man nodded. 

Abby watched her a moment longer, that ghost of a smirk still lingering. “Whiskey. Neat,” she said at last. “Please.” 

The waiter retreated and left them alone once more. Carol watched the empty space where he had stood a moment ago for as long as she could before, dragging her eyes back to the woman sitting across from her, she took in a deep breath, breathed out a smile. 

“So, how are things—” Abby asked. 

“What do you—” said Carol at the same time. 

They both stopped. Abby laughed a dry laugh. “I didn’t think it would be _this_ strange.” 

Carol opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find the right words. She nodded instead. “Yes…” 

Abby’s gaze fell to the table, slid off to her left. The empty air between them wanted for crickets. Finally, Abby sighed, leaned back in her chair, and fixed a piercing stare on Carol. “Alright. Tell me about you. What is your life like? Who are your friends? What do you do in your spare time—besides, of course, play tennis with yours truly?” 

Carol noticed the way Abby’s posture had changed. How, with it, her voice had gained a note of command it hadn’t had a moment prior. The way, with this performed ease, she had grabbed the conversation by its reigns and steered them onward. She felt the tension in her shoulders release, just a fraction. Right, then. What to say? “I—ah…Well.” She laughed a slight apology. As she tried to find the words to frame her life, it suddenly felt too big a task. Even as simple and dull and monotonous as it was, it felt gargantuan in that moment. What words could capture it? “Um… I—well, you know that I am married.” 

Abby tipped her head. “Yes.” Her lips twitched and she sat up, adopting a posture of jolly bravado and a deep voice. She held out a hand to Carol, jutting up her chin. “ _Harge Aird_.” She chuckled, nodding and leaning back in her chair, “Yeah. We met, remember?” 

Carol smiled. “How could I forget? He practically forced you to play tennis with me.” 

“Does he do that often?” Abby’s eyes were looking at the table, inspecting its grain following the turning shapes in the wood. She sounded casual. Almost disinterested. Carol had the distinct impression that Abby was anything but. “Arrange outings for you?” 

Carol was quiet for a beat, and, in that quietude the moment felt heavier. The conversation felt weighty and significant and crucial in a way that it had not at its start. The well of discontent that she kept so firmly under wraps bubbled up within her. She felt her throat constrict and her breathing become shallower, her eyes burn. Like small hairline fractures erupting across her composure. Not enough to break or crumble. Just enough to notice. She swallowed hard. “Sometimes. When he thinks it will help me.” She could not help the edge of bitterness that seeped into her words. 

Abby looked at her. Pursed her lips. Released a noncommittal hum. “Hmm.” Her fingers traced the swirl of a knot on the tabletop. 

Their drinks arrived. They placed orders for food andsipped in silence for a minute. Carol wound her fingers around the stem of her glass, pressing the base into the table. Like an anchor. Like a bearing wall. 

“What does Harge do?” Abby asked after a while. 

“He works in real estate. Investments and what have you.” She took a drink, straightened her spine. She could feel herself falling into that rehearsed line, the rag she pulled out for the party circuit. Demur grace, placid gratitude. A perfectly happy wife making perfectly banal statements about her practically perfect life. She felt sick. “It’s a promising field.” Abby was watching her, her face inscrutable. Carol noticed, faintly, a rising pressure in her sinuses. “He—I mean, _we_ are very fortunate and–Well, what with this economy and Rindy getting older, it’s just wonderful to have all the… opportunity, and…” 

“Carol.” Abby said quietly. Her brow was wrinkled. She looked worried. But, why—why would she look… 

Something warm and wet hit Carol’s fingers, still clenched around the stem of her glass. She looked down. Clear beads sat on her skin, slid down the sides of her fingers, disappearing into the crevices between them. She sucked in a sharp, stuttering breath, a sob sitting heavy on her chest. 

“Carol,” Abby said again. Quieter this time. She was leaning forward, reaching out across the table—her face a map of concern. 

Carol shook her head firmly. She wiped her eyes. No. No, this wasn’t— 

She couldn’t… _here_. Not now. She’d been doing so well. 

She sniffed. Blinked hard. Huffed out a heavy breath. Shook her head again and forced a smile. “Sorry.” The word was mostly air. 

Abby just frowned. 

“I…. I don’t know _what’s_ come over me,” Carol laughed again—nervously, pitiably. Her voice broke in squeaking, higher pitches around the words. She shut her mouth, swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, closed her eyes. This was not what she wanted to happen this evening. 

She felt a warm hand covering her own. “Carol.” For the third time, Abby said her name. So quietly, so softly. Carol looked at her. 

Abby’s eyes were not filled with judgement. She merely looked worried and more than a little curious. Carol’s body was suddenly so very heavy and her eyes so very tired—though, blessedly, dry. 

“Why—” Abby stopped herself. Seemed to consider her words carefully. She was still leaning over the table, a hand laying over Carol’s. Realizing this, she pulled back. Cleared her throat. Looked down at the table above her lap. Finally, she returned to Carol. “Why are you still with him?” 

Carol opened her mouth, her brow wrinkled. “I… Because. I married him. We got married. He—he proposed to me and that’s just how—” 

“Right,” Abby said, waving a hand to cut across Carol’s reasonings. “I know _that_ , but… you’re not happy, Carol. You’re not even—You’re a _mess_.” 

Carol closed her mouth. Her lips pinched together. _Oh_. Stung, she ran her hands over her skirt several times, trying desperately to fix _something, anything_. She shouldn’t have come here. She shouldn’t have tried this. It was never going to work. 

Abby held up both hands this time, begging for time or forgiveness or something. “Wait. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.” 

The air was thick, and Carol’s glass was empty. 

Abby tried again. “I think what I was trying to say, or to _ask_ you was really… just, why force it? The marriage.” She dipped her head to catch Carol’s eyes. “I may not know everything. God knows, I don’t know everything. But I… _care_ about you, and this… It’s clear it’s not working. For you. You’re not okay— _you don’t seem_ okay.” Her voice grew quieter, “So, why force it?” She let out a breath and watched Carol, waiting for the verdict. 

“Because…. It—I… it’s my life.” Carol heard herself as if she was very far away. There was something to Abby’s questions, of course. Carol been asking them to herself for well over a year now—likely longer. And she was _tired_ of asking those questions. Why, indeed? But, every time she peered into the murky problem that was her marriage, she felt overwhelmed and exhausted. One did not get divorced easily. That wasn’t a decision one could make just… because things were hard or uncomfortable. She didn’t put much stock in the religiosity of marriage—sacred bonds seemed a far cry from what the world could offer her—but she did recognize the social worth of a marriage. The expectation of that marriage staying intact. And, leaving Harge— 

Carol felt a swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach. Not unpleasant, per se. Rather like the feeling of suddenly losing control. No. It wouldn’t be that easy, that simple. Nothing was ever that simple. 

Carol was faintly aware that the waiter had arrived with their food. She was decidedly no longer hungry. She saw, too, Abby motion for the man to wait before leaving them to their meals. “Two more martinis,” the other woman requested in murmured tones. He departed, and Carol eyed Abby warily. 

“You were drinking whiskey.” 

Abby returned the look with a stubborn, steely one of her own. “I was. But you prefer martinis.” 

This, too, was familiar. The subtle warfare they had played through over and again: Carol sulking over some particularly thoughtless, blunt statement from Abby. Abby demonstrating her loyalty with almost angered defiance. Daring Carol, it seemed, to imagine that such words were not born of care. This time, however, familiarity stoked no comfort, only irritation. 

Carol sighed. “I just—I don’t want to talk about Harge right now. Let’s just leave it be, alright? It’s the life I agreed to… That’s—It is what it is.” 

“Doesn’t sound like you want it to be your life.” 

“I…” Carol placed her palms flat on the table, wishing fervently for her drink, for time, for the quiet peace they’d left behind in the car. “ _Please,_ Abby.” 

But she stubbornly persisted, “If you don’t want it, don’t do it.” 

Carol tossed up her hands and cut across Abby with a sharp voice. “It’s more complicated than that! I made vows. Or, even… beyond that—I… we… We have _Rindy_.” 

Abby’s eyes wandered over Carol’s face. “That’s your daughter.” 

Carol nodded, looked down at the table. 

The waiter arrived, depositing twin martinis in front of them. Carol pulled hers toward her and sat there, staring at the clear reflective surfaces—some liquid, some not. The way the light and the gold of the room played about the whole of it. Like a hall of mirrors at her fingertips. She lifted her index finger and ran it down the length of the glass’s stem. So smooth. 

“Tell me about her.” Abby spoke quietly, the words framed as a command but spoken as a request. 

“Rindy? Oh, where do I start. She’s just… wonderful.” Carol exhaled out the behemoth of tension swirling about her body. She leaned back in her chair, looking at the ceiling as if gathering there a thousand beautiful things she might say. Then, humming out a light laugh, she started from the beginning, offering every minute detail, describing every single moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this (mostly) quiet moment of a chapter. We're starting to see Abby and Carol build a new friendship on the foundations and familiarity of the old one. 
> 
> It's been an interesting experiment to write from both Carol and Abby's perspectives at times. It changes the story from one about two characters to one about four characters. Abby and her version of Carol, Carol and her version of Abby. All more or less related to the versions in OGOT. I'm having fun with it.


	13. The Only Solid Thing in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby’s lips twitched into a smile. This was the dilemma. This right here. She was witty and fun—even when she was cross. She was able to make the smallest moment of vulnerability feel like the greatest, most intimate of confidences. She was able to turn a complaint into an apology—and, somehow, make it one Abby wanted to accept.

_**Early January 1945**_

Abby stood just outside the doorway to the Whitney Museum of Art watching people walk by. Every now and then, someone would cast a glance at her standing there before they would shuffle on through the doorway—heading in to look over the gallery awaiting inside. 

It was a cold Tuesday morning, and cars crawled in gridlocked lines up the road. Troves of city goers headed to work, to meetings, or to the odd social engagement. Around them, clouds of warm engine exhaust puffed up and floated along the curbsides before, finally, dissipating into the air. It appeared almost as if the cars were drifting along on little clouds. Clouds that stunk and sputtered and occasionally creaked, wanting oil. Abby sighed. Carol was, of course, late. 

She pulled her wool coat more tightly around her, willing the material to deny passage to any and all wind that blustered about her. Her prays went unanswered, and she suppressed the chill that crept over her. Even her toes, so swathed within her shoes, had started to grow numb. The balls of her feet stung where they pressed heavy against the concrete. Carol had better hurry up. She wasn’t going to wait outside forever. Horns pierced the air, punctuating her irritation. 

She supposed it was seasonably appropriate, the cold. The weather had stayed stubbornly warm until a few weeks prior, lingering around 40 degrees. Freak weather for a freak year, she huffed to herself. And, indeed, it had been a whirlwind of a time. The past few months, meeting up with Carol to play tennis, meeting with her for dinner or lunch. Gleaning more and more of Carol’s unhappiness and utter defeatism about her life. Odd. And rather depressing. _She_ wouldn’t be so forgiving, so patient, were she in Carol’s shoes. Then again, Abby had to admit, she couldn’t imagine herself in Carol’s shoes. 

Even as magnetic as Carol’s lows were, it was nice reconnecting with her. Nice and strange and a little like a dream. Abby hadn’t expected much. She thought they would meet up for a game once, maybe twice. That their contact would dwindle as it had before. That Carol would get bored of it as she seemed so very bored of all the other activities that filled her life. 

But the opposite had occurred. Carol had asked her to dinner. They had bonded—in horrible, awkward, teeth-itchingly tense circumstances, but it had happened. And now, here she was. Waiting for Carol to join her so they might peruse a gallery of artists. Bonding. Spending time. Talking about anything and everything. Or, many things, that was. There were still some conversations Abby was not yet comfortable broaching. 

If someone had told her a year ago that _this_ lay in wait for her, she would have asked them what they were drinking. 

A sudden gust of wind bit Abby’s cheeks and she grimaced. _Come on, Carol_. As if by some magic, her words yielded results. The blonde woman, hunched against the wind and bundled in a heavy fur coat, rounded a nearby corner. Her expression pleaded for forgiveness. Her posture angled for the indoors. Abby quirked her lips, nodded, and they hurried through the threshold. 

Inside was blessedly warm, light, and calmer. The room’s circulation was slower, more fluid than the stuttering rush of traffic and blustering cold. Abby sighed happily, doffing her coat at the coat check and offering a hand to help Carol with hers. Carol shrugged the fur back, allowing the material to bundle around her shoulders. Abby reached up to hold it, as Carol disentangled herself from the sleeves. As her fingers gripped the fur, she grazed Carol’s shoulder—covered, of course, with the white pearlescent fabric of her blouse, but warm, too, from the body that lay beneath it. Abby froze, blushed, and grew uncomfortable. She hadn’t thought before offering to take Carol’s coat. Carol, it seemed, hadn’t thought before allowing it. It was pleasant. A domestic gesture. Intimate, almost. A kind of caring. Something Abby had done plenty of times before with plenty of other women. But this was different, of course. This was Carol. Just… Carol. She tucked her head, resumed her motion, and gingerly handed the fur coat over to the attendant. She accepted the small metal chit in return. Carol, she was relieved to note, did not seem to notice anything amiss. 

“I’m _so_ sorry,” the younger woman said with the breathless voice of someone who had raced across a distance. Abby ushered Carol through the museum’s entranceway and toward the exhibit. She was careful not to touch her again. “There was traffic and _horrible_ parking and— _oh_.” Abby chuckled as Carol gasped at the exhibit laid out before them. 

It was a long room—with honey-colored wood floors and a high ceiling. Paintings dotted the walls, cleanly labeled with accompanying white placards. Soft white light fell on the works, illuminating them brilliantly. In the center, running the length of the room, were benches. Dark cherry wood things. People drifted about the length of the room, walking down one side and up the other. A different sort of traffic. A few people occupied benches. Some with pads of paper—taking notes or drawing inspiration. Others chatted with their company in subdued tones, murmuring appreciation for the exhibit, critiques, queries, or continuing conversations that reached well beyond the walls of the Whitney. 

“Oh, wow. Look at this one.” Carol drifted over to a tall painting hanging just to their right. It was red and cream with thin linework revealing small, angular figures draped in feathery numbers, descending a giant red staircase, standing beside a giant red curtain. _Spring Sale at Bendel’s_ , it was called. Abby appraised the work, noting the places where the oil pigments blended smoothly together and where it caught, stuttering in a dry scrape across the canvas. 

“Wonderful,” Abby murmured finally. Her eyes wandered over to the placard. 

Carol cast a glance at her. “Do you know much about art?” She looked back at the piece, her eyes sweeping over the red, red, red of it. “I know very little. Just what my mother had books on. And maybe a few things picked up from the party circuit women.” 

Abby’s lips quirked. _The party circuit women_. It sounded like a troupe of players. And, from the bite in Carol’s tone, a rather bad troupe at that. 

Carol sighed. “I’d like to know more. Really, I would. It seems like the sort of hobby distinguished women adopt. Distinguished… but a little rakish, too.” She shot Abby a quick smile. Abby chortled in reply. Carol hummed. Drifted her eyes over the painting’s bold colors, its delicate lines. “I think I’d like to go there.” She glanced at Abby. “To this Bendel’s place. I think I’d like the atmosphere. The energy. They all seem to be having a marvelous time.” 

Abby looked at Carol for a moment. She did this sometimes, this surprising thing. Admitting desires, showing vulnerabilities obliquely. It took a certain code to decipher her. “It’s funny you think so,” Abby said at last, “It’s meant to be rather chaotic. A joke about the fashion industry and what have you.” Carol looked at her curiously. Abby shifted, tilting her head in concession, “I… know a little. About art.” They drifted on to the next piece in the line: a beautiful flower in arching shades of blue and green. “When I was abroad, I stayed with my uncle in Cambridge.” 

Though their pace remained slow and even, Abby could feel the charge of energy fill the air between them. They’d not spoken about Europe since that one, random encounter so many nights ago. And, even then, it had been a mere mention. This, this was significant. This was a step. A dangerous, weighted, terrifying step toward knowing someone. 

Because, the truth of the matter was that Abby was vastly, _vastly_ unprepared for Carol to ask her about Europe. She lived her life as openly as she cared to around many people, but with Carol? That was… unthinkable. Impossible. It didn’t matter that Carol surely already knew. It didn’t matter that she was still interested in rekindling their friendship, in meeting with Abby week after week for some outing, some match of tennis. None of that mattered. All that felt real, all that felt true to Abby was what had already happened between them. And what had happened had hurt. Unimaginably. 

So, she feinted—spoke the rough shape of things and left out all the details. “I—uh, I joined a sort of salon society. In Paris. I went there with some friends.” Abby was aware of Carol hanging onto her words. She swallowed hard. “I met a few artists there. Must have picked up a thing or two from them. I mean—one in particular definitely taught me about painting and painters, the industry.” Carol was tilting her head now. Curious. “So, uh, I know some of this.” The back of her neck felt hot. It prickled. “I can’t paint myself,” she added quickly. God, her voice sounded thin. “Obviously. I’m terrible at it, but I can look at them—at paintings, I mean, and understand them.” She felt jittery, full to the brim with nervous energy that made her want to dash about the place, to run for the door. Perhaps to burst out in a fit of laughter. She did none of those things. She simply offered Carol a smile. 

“Salon society.” Carol repeated. She sounded impressed. Still curious but impressed. “Wow. That’s—I didn’t know that you… did all that. I mean, I knew you were gone for a while, but…” She stopped walking, paused their slow drift around the room. “I’m glad you did. I’m really, _really_ pleased for you. Especially since… Well. I’m… just glad. For you.” Carol sucked in a breath and laughed it out lightly. Laughing, it seemed, at herself. At her sudden nervousness. She tucked her hair behind her ear, stared at the floor, the wall, the current of faces moving about them. 

Abby opened her mouth—but, what could she say? _Gee thanks, Carol. I’m also glad my exile was fruitful. Want to hear about the_ other _things I learned while abroad?_ No. That wouldn’t work. She shut her mouth, nodded around a forced smile, and started walking toward the next piece. Without a word, Carol followed. 

It was hard. Not talking about it. There was so much that felt integral to her, so much that lit her up inside like a beacon—that had done so _in_ Paris, _in_ those salons, and she couldn’t talk about any of it. It suddenly felt like a chasm had erupted between her and Carol. This massive expanse just spread out between them. She felt trapped and stuck and claustrophobic and terrified. She wanted to scream at Carol, wanted to tell her in no uncertain terms that she was a lesbian. That that was okay. That she… loved it. Really and truly. That there was nothing wrong with her—God, couldn’t she understand? Wouldn’t she… please. Be okay with it, too. 

At once, that impulse to scream turned inward, turned to pure, molten terror. She was petrified, pinned, locked into place. She needed to run. As far as she could. Away from Carol. From this whole open chapter of her past that _would not close_ , that some part of her—some sick, masochistic part— _wanted_ to keep open. Why risk getting close to Carol? Why bother? It would all end up wrong. It would all hurt in the end. She knew it. Better than anyone, she knew it. 

But then, again, there was a softer side to it all. A side that reached back into her childhood and felt and knew and _remembered_ how wonderful it had been to be friends with her. That loved being friends. Having a person who knew you like she knew the back of her own hand. It was a warm feeling. A security. A comfort. It was also a strength. Something beautiful, untarnished, ever exciting. When she had Carol, the world had been at their fingertips, and _she missed that_. She missed it keenly, with a deep and unsettling ache. 

Standing here, standing beside Carol was surreal because it shouldn’t be happening. Standing beside Carol was excruciating because she knew that she wasn’t really standing there. Not all of her. Not really. There would always be that secret something she kept back. She would always be a different person than the woman Carol thought was standing beside her. 

Abby bit the inside of her cheek. She nodded in time with a comment Carol was making. The words meant nothing to her, but she followed their rhythm. She responded the way she ought to. Meanwhile, on the inside Abby debated and wondered and puzzled and predicted and analyzed and wallowed and imagined and dreamt and thought. And thought. And worried. 

* * *

They made their way around the room quickly enough after that. Some part of Abby’s mind knew that she had grown too quiet, that Carol had responded in kind. Some part of her registered the way that quietude had grown stiff, brittle. The way it began to sting like the wind outside. 

They exchanged absent comments through the lobby to retrieve their coats, walked silently through the front doors, and lingered on the pavement outside, leaning against the museum’s walls. 

Carol held Abby’s gaze for a moment, the barest sketch of a frown forming on her brow. She knew something was wrong. Of course she did. It was obvious, wasn’t it? Abby grit her teeth. She ought to be better at subterfuge by now. She should say something. She searched the air for magic words that would fix everything—her, them, the world they lived in. No avail. She pursed her lips instead. 

Then, Carol looked away, looked down into her purse. She rummaged her hand through its small space, her shoulders drawn in to stave off the cold. After a few seconds, she pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. It was bent nearly in half, its sides caving in somewhat near the lid. Carol scowled at it. She flipped open the top with her thumb and swore. She plucked out one lone cigarette, crushed almost in two, hanging together by the barest sliver of paper. “God fucking damnit,” she hissed. She dropped the pack, the cigarette, and, it seemed, her remaining calm back into her purse. “Of all the _stupid_ things…” The words were but a whisper. 

Abby suppressed a smile. “I don’t remember you cursing nearly this much when we were kids.” She regretted it the moment the words left her mouth. 

Carol shot her a dark look, and snapped, “Yes. Well. I’ve changed rather a lot since then.” Her voice was razor thin, serrated. 

Abby held up a hand—a shield, a white flag. “I know that, Carol,” she said quietly. 

Carol’s eyes held their venom for a beat. Then, her guards unfurled, and she relaxed. She let her head fall back against the wall and her eyes close to the world. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky and landed on her face. They disappeared almost instantaneously, lingering just long enough to dot her skin before melting away. Abby wondered at the sight of her—posed there like a marble statue, her cheeks growing a light blush from the cold. Carol exhaled a long, wilted sigh. “I am so tired of this shit,” she murmured after a moment. 

Abby watched her. “’This shit’?” 

Carol opened her eyes, glanced at Abby. “Life,” she muttered. Her voice was pebbled—smooth and rough at the same time. She sighed again. “The big things. Of course. And the little things.” She quirked her eyebrows. “Like crumpled cigarettes.” 

Abby’s lips twitched into a smile. This was the dilemma. This right here. She was witty and fun—even when she was cross. She was able to make the smallest moment of vulnerability feel like the greatest, most intimate of confidences. She was able to turn a complaint into an apology—and, somehow, make it one Abby wanted to accept. 

Abby reached into her own bag and withdrew a silver case. It was a small rectangular thing with intricate filigree engraved into the surface. She offered it to Carol. Bewildered, the younger woman took it. “Now what’s this?” Carol’s voice was sharp, but her tone was curious, mutely excited. She clicked the latch and let out a light gasp at the sight of its contents. 

Nestled into each wing of the case were six cigarettes, held fast in little satin loops. Carol laughed and took one from its cradle. “Abby Gerhard, you are my hero.” 

Abby preened. “Well, I may not be able to fix the big things, but I’ll be damned if I don’t have a trick or two up my sleeve for the other stuff.” 

Carol chuckled around the cigarette between her lips. She lit the tip, inhaled, and reveled in the practice through a plume of smoke. She hummed, chuckled again, and held out the case to Abby to return it. 

Abby held up her hand again. This time, as a gate. “No,” she said. “It’s a gift.” 

Carol’s eyes widened. She looked down at the case in her hands, back at Abby, around the street. “What? I—no, Abby. This is too much. That’s lovely, but I couldn’t—I cannot accept this. Please.” She held the case out to Abby again, her face stern. 

Abby shook her head. She placed a quelling hand over Carol’s own. A jolt of electricity raced up her spine in spite of the gloves between them. “I’m serious, Carol. Take it. Please. I want you to have it.” 

Carol opened her mouth again, her brow furrowed. “But—” 

“Look,” Abby rushed to speak. She wanted Carol to just take the damn thing, take a bit of support for once in her goddamn life. “Carol, I know it isn’t really my business. I know we haven’t been—I know we’re not as close as we were. I know that. But, seeing you these past few months… You look like you could use a few happy memories. You do. And, who knows? Maybe this will act as a good luck charm for you. It did for me. Or, I don’t know, remind you that there are people out there who have your back and care for you.” Carol was staring at her now, her face flushed with more than cold. “I just… want you to remember that stuff when it’s bad. When things are bad. When you feel… tired.” There was something precarious about Carol’s gaze that gave Abby pause. It was fragile. On the verge of a break. On the verge of saying something and welling over with emotion. Abby summoned a slanted smile to temper it. “At the very least, it will guarantee you many, many years free of crumpled cigarettes.” 

It did the trick. Carol choked out a breathy laugh, nodded, and tucked the case into her purse. She lifted a hand and grasped Abby’s forearm, squeezed lightly—a thank you. She nodded again. 

“I—uh. I should get going. Harge…” She pursed her lips, frowning. “Harge will be home soon, and—Well. I’m sure he’ll be…” She trailed off, her eyes wandering down the line of pavement lain out before them. 

Abby nodded curtly, “I understand. It’s fine. Have—Have a good rest of your day.” Carol just looked at her. It was an unnerving gaze, intent and indecipherable. Abby cleared her throat. “Lunch this Saturday?” 

Carol smiled a small, soft smile. “I’d like that,” she said. Then, she turned and followed the sidewalk until she disappeared around the corner, headed off toward her car—wherever it was parked—to start her drive home. 

Abby released a long breath and greeted that familiar weariness she often felt after meeting up with Carol. It was not that Carol exhausted her. Not exactly. It was that there was… so much in their social engagements. So much to unravel in their conversations, so many landmines buried between them to avoid or recover from. So much history to contend with. 

It was that every sentence exchanged mattered and meant so much more than it would in any other context. It refracted against years of experiences. It invoked memories and commitments they both had. Speaking to Carol always risked the most intimate of earthquakes. Abby never quite knew what would set her off—what incidental thing would tap into a weak faultline. Would make her sink into a despair or rear up in defense. She wasn’t histrionic. She was simply… closed off. She warded herself so desperately that it was impossible to be considerate of her vulnerabilities. She wouldn’t admit she had any. Until, that is, she was forced to. 

It was a marathon, their friendship. Abby loved it and also felt unmoored by it. It was enough of a task to navigate their past while trying to create a new present, but alongside that navigation was also the secrets she kept from Carol. The intolerable decision she made every time they met up of whether or not to reveal those secrets. Those of her disposition. Her difference. 

Abby shoved her gloved hands into her pockets, glanced about the street, and started off toward a nearby restaurant to find some lunch. And, perhaps, a drink. She could use a drink. 

… 

… 

“Do you know how _embarrassing_ it was to go to that luncheon _alone_? It was for my _work_. My _reputation_ is on the line. To have my _wife_ just opt out? People noticed you were gone! Si’s wife asked after you, so many people asked after you. I had to make up some excuse because _you_ weren’t there.” 

Harge was pacing again. His nostrils flared as he snarled at Carol in ferocious whispers. 

“You didn’t need to lie. I didn’t go pull off a heist. You could have told them the truth.” Carol spoke in low, even tones. Rindy was just upstairs. And, as Harge has told her a moment ago, it wouldn’t do for Rindy to catch them fighting. Again. She was too young to understand. 

Carol had come home half an hour prior to find an irate Harge waiting for her. When she’d hung up her coat in the hall closet, she’d heard his footsteps fast approaching. And, soon enough, Harge had shot through the doorway of the den, his face screwed up with irritation. He’d looked at her, gestured impatiently toward the den, and disappeared again. Carol had sighed. She’d expected as much. That didn’t make it any less tiresome. 

Minutes upon minutes passed. Carol still sat on a couch in the den. Her shoulders ached. Her left ankle had grown numb. Her mind was as worn as a threadbare rug. A rug, perhaps, like the one upon which Harge paced and paced and paced. Back and forth, ranting and scowling and hissing all the while. 

“Oh, and tell them what? That you were off galivanting with your childhood best friend? That you just simply _had_ to go see some _art_?” He spat out the word like it was poison. “Carol, goddamn it, this is our _life_. I’m sure it isn’t nearly as exciting as whatever bohemian trash Abby has been peddling you, but it is our life. I need you here.” 

Carol’s lips drew into a thin, hard line. She glared at him, “It was a luncheon, Harge.” 

Harge threw up his hands, “It _was_ a luncheon! My luncheon! For _my_ work.” He took a step closer to her, jabbed a finger in her direction. “And you are _my_ wife!” 

Carol took a steadying breath. Vows were on her mind. Vows and promises and the desperate belief that such things had to mean something. She was his wife. She had made those promises. For better or for worse. But, she grit her teeth, she was not the villain here. And she was not _his_. She knew that in her bones. 

Silence fell between them for the barest of moments. It was not the peaceful silence of an empty room or the somber silence that follows a eulogy. It was a tense and terrifying silence. The silence of a field covered in gun smoke, lingering only as long as it took the soldiers to reload their weapons. 

“Maybe it was a mistake to have you play tennis with her,” he said quietly. His voice was bitter and pitiful at once. “I think it’s confused you, made you lose sight of your priorities.” 

Carol reared—her head shooting up to stare daggers at Harge, her hands balling into fists. “My priorities? And, pray tell me, Harge, what exactly do you think _my_ priorities are?” 

Harge shook his head and looked about the air above them. “I don’t know, Care. To be a wife? To be present and supportive? To be a mother to Rindy?” 

Her nails bit her palms. “I am a—” 

“Oh, sure. What a great mother you are, running off to New York City every other day.” Harge laughed. It was a hollow and cruel. 

Carol couldn’t move. Her muscles were constricted with rage. She was faintly aware that her hands were trembling. That the muscles of her jaw ached from the pressure of her clenched teeth. But what, what could she say? She had to say _something_. 

“I mean,” Harge laughed again. It was weaker this time. Tones of sadness found their way into his words. “What kind of role model do you think you’re being for our daughter? What kind of precedent do you think you’re setting?” 

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t— 

She was so _tired_ of this. She needed a drink, a cigarette, _anything_ to— 

… distract her. From this. 

Slowly, Carol’s hands released from their fists. Her jaw softened. Her muscles unbound her. She turned her head, looking down at the couch beside her. At her bag—she’d carried it in from the hall after Harge had beckoned her. It was here. Beside her. She reached for it. 

“Carol,” Harge was calling her. Saying something else, too. She didn’t answer him. She hardly heard him. She simply opened the clasp of her purse and pulled out the small silver case. She stared at it. She did feel better. Wonder of wonders. Good luck charm, Abby’d called it. Indeed. Carol felt her lips turn in a small smile. 

“Carol, I am talking to you. Are you even listening to me?” 

An anchor. That’s what it was. An anchor. Something to keep her from drowning, from drifting off into oblivion. Carol was once again struck with a baffled sort of gratitude at the fact that she had found Abby again. That they were friends. It was no small thing to recognize that you were not alone in the world. She looked at the case again, traced a bit of the filigree etching with her thumb. She was not alone in the world. 

On her left, Harge was no longer pacing. He stared at her, his brow furrowed in a mixture of anger and worry. He called to her. 

“ _Carol_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obligated to say, "Smoking's bad for you, kids," though it sure is one hell of a prop to play with. 
> 
> I think it would be very difficult for Abby to untangle her feelings about being friends with Carol again. Not only because of her former/ now-latent feelings for her. But also because of the broken trust between them and the fact that so much of that broken trust came from very unresolved conflicts. And now, Carol is leaning desperately on Abby. Abby loves it because Carol is... well, Carol. But I think there is also something convenient about Abby for Carol. She is there. She is available. She is so very different from her day to day and represents a different kind of life than Carol finds herself in. She does care for her. I feel like that is genuine care. She is also relying on their connection in a way that isn't necessarily in Abby's interest. And I think Abby knows that. It's all tricky. But! Things continue to shift between them. Carol is being vulnerable around her, and that is no small thing.


	14. The Slow Growing of a Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and Abby grow closer across the early months of 1945.

**_January: The Next Morning_ **

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was just wandering over the horizon, painting the sky with pastel blues and yellows. Birds perched in the trees outside the windows trading arias back and forth. Carol sat at her kitchen table clutching her cup of coffee. She kept her hands wrapped around the jadeite mug, shifting them every now and again when the heat became unbearable. She breathed in the scent of the coffee, exhaled a puff of air that distorted its swirling steam. 

Small tapping sounds ricocheted off the table beside her where Rindy sat, playing with a small toy bird—a little plastic thing with thin, spread wings, orange sculpted feathers, and glossy black eyes. Rindy walked it across the table, teetering its taloned feet in a hobbling gait. Beneath her breath, she murmured small sounds. Words. Or word-like things. Narrating the fantastical display before her. 

Carol couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter. There was something so soothing, so secure in the open tenderness of Rindy. Something deeply reassuring, too. She had worried about being a mother. When they had found out she was pregnant, Carol had felt the smallest tinge of dismay. Fear. Regret. Raising another person had seemed an insurmountable, utterly ridiculous task. However could she guide another human through life when her own felt alien to her? When she hardly knew the rules to it herself? But parenting, it turned out, was not a matter of knowing all the answers. It was a negotiation. A different form of intimacy, a balance of patience and attention and care. And somehow, even as bewildering and frustrating as she found so many people, Carol had taken to Rindy. With Rindy, things made sense. Rindy adored Carol. She needed her—but not some other version of her that was socially manicured and respectable. Just _her_. It was simple and perfect. 

Carol had never been particularly close with her own mother. Virginia was a cold woman. She did not volunteer warmth or closeness. Only on rare occasions would she appear before her daughters, invite some sort of adventure or activity—a party, a special outing, a treat—and suddenly feel _there, with them_. She wasn’t neglectful. Carol was well cared for and watched over. It was just her way to remain distant, to watch from afar the goings on of the household. To manage all the moving parts like clockwork. That was her version of love, Carol supposed. 

It left something to be desired in the way of modeling motherhood, and Carol had decided she would raise Rindy differently. She would be close. Available. Warm. 

And so it was that they found themselves sitting together on that Wednesday morning. Rindy playing in her own world, an empty plate beside her dotted with the remnants of eaten scrambled eggs. Carol beside her, taking in the sky, the birds, the girl, and her fantasies. Sometimes, life yielded such beautiful things. 

… 

She heard Harge’s steps before he announced himself. He padded down the hallway carpet toward them, pausing in the dining room’s threshold. 

“Carol,” he said softly, hesitantly. His voice carried the gruffness of sleep still. It was a greeting, but one so cautious and apologetic it was almost a question. 

She breathed again—coffee: a medley of wine and chocolate and cherry—and turned to look at Harge, saying nothing. 

“G’morning,” he mumbled, taking her silence as a mixed message of cold reserve and passive invitation. He sat himself down in a seat on the other side of Rindy. “Hey there, bean,” he said to Rindy, planting a light kiss on the top of her head. His eyes ran over her for a moment, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He loved Rindy. Carol knew it. It was one of the things she liked about him, how much he adored his daughter. Then, his eyes drifted over, up, toward Carol’s face. She met them with a blank look. 

He’d stayed in the guest room the night before. They’d fought for so long that afternoon. Dinner was a dismal affair, and after—well, she hadn’t wanted to be near him. She tucked Rindy into bed and shut the door to her own room securely behind her. He did not follow her. They seemed to have more and more of these fights these days. And, as with last night, they nearly always ended with Harge snapping at Carol, Carol getting cold, and both of them saying a series of things they would soon regret. It wasn’t his fault—or hers, even. Cornered animals were dangerous. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d chosen to stay in the guest room either. She knew he kept a few clothes in there. She felt a grim sort of satisfaction at the thought that he had some back up plan, a safety net. A retreat. A ritual for mending. Each time, he would edge into the room the morning after, his proverbial tail tucked between his legs, offer apologies and the meekest humor, and hope to work his way back into her good graces. 

It always took less time when Rindy was around. They both knew it. Rindy meant they had to stow away whatever remaining anger bubbled in their chests, had to get along as convincingly and happily as possible. Whatever their issues, Rindy could not be a part of it. They had agreed. 

Rindy showed Harge the plastic bird, brought it crashing onto the table with greater and greater swings. She let out a peal of laughter at the grandness of it, the loudness, the bounce and crash and bounce and— 

_SNAP._

The left wing of the bird fell to the floor, skittering away until it was near the center of the room. Rindy stared at the bird with a blank sort of amazement. Baffled and entranced by the change. Its new shape, its disappointment, its loss. She teetered on the edge of wonder and sorrow. “Mommy!” she gasped, her big eyes pleading to Carol for unknown miracles. Carol’s heart ached for her daughter. Miracles were few and far between. 

Harge’s arm dipped to the floor in a quick sweep, grabbing the wing. As he resurfaced, he brought one hand up to rub Rindy’s back, soothing her away from an oncoming tantrum. “Hey, now. Here we go. We’ll just get some glue and stick that back together, alright? Everything’s fine. It’ll be right as rain, okay bean?” 

Rindy nodded, holding the dislocated wing in her hands, that same sense of wonder and puzzlement painting her face. 

“But, darling,” Carol leaned in toward her daughter. Rindy looked up at her. “It won’t be quite the same. You’ll need to be gentle with it. You don’t want to break it again.” 

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Harge said, shooting a pointed look her way. “Rindy, hun, why don’t you go fetch me some glue. It’s in the desk just in the hallway out there. Can you go do that? There you go.” 

Rindy hopped off her chair and sped away to the task. God knows whether she knew where the desk was, or whether she’d listened enough to hear the full of Harge’s words. She was just happy to be moving, running down the hall that she was not supposed to run down. 

Carol frowned at Harge, but he didn’t notice. He was peering at the plastic bird, his face screwed up in concentration. He held the wing in one hand, the body in the other, eyeing the warped plastic seam where the part had broken off. 

After a moment, he sighed and placed the pieces back onto the table. He leaned back into his chair and looked at Carol. Carol looked right back. 

“Look, Care. I’m… I’m sorry about everything yesterday. Everything I said and, well, you know. You know I just get all knotted up about… things sometimes. It’s no excuse, I know it. But I’m just sorry is all.” He took a deep breath, picked up the broken wing again. “I want to make this work.” He looked at her. He had such deep brown eyes. Carol had always liked his eyes. They had a sincerity to them that was so hard to find in a person. And if Harge was guilty of anything, it was being too sincere. “For Rindy. For you. And, hell, for me too. Of course.” Carol watched him run the flat of his thumb over the sculpted feathers. “I want us to work. Can we do that? Can we keep trying?” 

Carol looked at him—this man she had married, that she had leaned on for distraction and care and confidence. This man that had not wavered once in his desire for their life to be a good one, a happy one—no matter the difficulties. So, so many choices she had made in her life, but this was the one she was most perplexed by: Harge. She’d loved him. That was true. But… why? Where had all that gone? And what had it been replaced with? She didn’t hate him. Not at all. It was just… they were strangers now. Harge was the same—he was a rock. Solid and dependable and unyielding. It was Carol that had changed. Shifted, slowly and imperceptibly, into someone new that she herself did not fully understand. 

Harge’s eyes were wide. Wide and brown and warm and worried. Carol tilted her head a fraction, wondered at his eyes, and, finally, nodded. Harge released a breath of relief, nodding as well. He was a good man, a desperate man. A man trying so very hard to make a broken thing work. 

* * *

* * *

**_February_**

They had agreed to meet at Frankenberg’s clothing department to pass the hours before dinner. It was a weekday, and the department store had few clients. A scant number of women walked the aisles, selecting necessities to fit the amounts allocated by their ration cards. They had an anxious air about them, as if their time were as precious a resource as anything else. They had work or some volunteer effort calling them. For them, it was hardly an afternoon out. 

But then, few people had afternoons out these days. Everything was business and bootstraps and doing your part to help your fellow man. A cheery smile on a bleak and bloody set of years. Still, Abby did her part. She volunteered at rations distribution centers and the Red Cross foundation. She donated to support funds for hungry children and charities—anything to fill her days. She’d considered finding a job, but the thought of any sort of regular schedule irritated her. So, instead, she dipped in and out of commitments, lending a hand here and offering a donation there. At the very least, it was not what anyone would call “dull.” 

Wandering aimlessly among the lines of hanging fabric, Abby ran her forefinger over the metal of hangers and bars, pushing the rotating displays into a slow orbit. Beautiful, gossamer sheets gently rocked back and forth as they swung around. There was something especially delicious about open afternoons and leisurely weekends these days. It was a luxury few could afford. If she’d been an artist, she didn’t doubt she would have produced whole collections of works, inspired by endless hours spent watching a ravaged world. As it was, she simply drank up the time, always offsetting it with just the right amount of engagements and activities to really feel the freedom of it. 

Perhaps that was selfish of her. Perhaps she ought to put herself out more for “the effort.” She pushed the display again, refreshing its momentum. Perhaps not. She watched the progress for a beat until the rack slowed to a stop, and everything settled back to stillness. She sighed. She wasn’t really looking for anything. She preferred to shop elsewhere. 

Off to her left, Carol thumbed through lines of blouses. “Harge has been… difficult about our outings,” she said. Her voice was painstakingly even. Impassive. Attempting coolness even as it revealed an edge of unease. 

Abby looked over at her. “Difficult,” she repeated. Evenly. 

Carol stared at the blouse she was holding for a moment longer than she needed to. It was like she was weighing her options. Finally, still without looking up, she said, “…Yes.” 

_Yes_. That was all. She could be infuriating sometimes. Abby raised her eyebrows, leaned an arm on a nearby rack and threaded her fingers. They weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, it seemed. “Say more,” she said. She tried to keep her voice light, inviting. She wasn’t entirely sure she succeeded. 

Carol slowly put the blouse down, lowering the hook of the hanger onto its rod with care. “I think—well, he’s been frustrated by the amount of time I spend in the city.” At long last, she met Abby’s eyes. “With you.” Abby searched them, trying to find therein some secret meaning for this conversation. Why now? Why here? “He thinks I should be more available.” Carol shook her head lightly, dismissing the thought as ridiculous or excessive or… something. 

“For what?” It was like pulling teeth, getting things out of this woman. 

She waved a hand nonchalantly, “Oh, luncheons and dinners. They’re not all that often, but they happen regularly enough. Lately they’ve been particularly spirited affairs. Promoting the war efforts, you know. Encouraging donations and things. I’ve… missed the last few.” Carol glanced off to the side, her eyes running over the department store’s sea of displays and star-spangled advertisements. “We had plans, you see, and I couldn’t cancel them.” She looked back at Abby, a small smile on her lips. 

Abby smirked in response. “Naturally.” 

Carol’s smiled widened. She nodded her head, looking down at her shoes. Then, her eyes drifted up toward the ceiling, wandered down the left wall. She sighed. “And, I suppose he thinks I don’t spend enough time looking after Rindy.” She looked… guilty. And a little afraid. As if she were worried such a thing were true. 

“Well, that’s ridiculous.” Abby said with all the bravado she could muster. But, of course, she hadn’t the faintest idea about Carol’s parenting habits. She did see Carol often these days. A few times a week. It probably _was_ a sore spot for Harge. But Rindy? Who knew what a little girl thought? All she knew was that Carol loved her daughter dearly. 

“Quite.” Carol straightened her back, regaining that image of regal stoicism. “Anyway, he isn’t usually so bold about it. He tries not to say anything, but I can tell it bothers him.” She drifted off to another display—this one with a meek line of sweaters. 

Abby pushed off the rack and followed Carol. She ran a hand along the ridges of plush wool on her right, keeping her eyes on the blonde woman, “What are you going to do?” 

Carol raised her eyebrows, shook her head, “What _can_ I do? Avoid this? Avoid you?” She looked at Abby, fire in her eyes, “I don’t want to. I won’t.” 

Abby’s neck felt warm. Her head had a dizzying sort of sweep to it. Her heart cantered. It was a good day. The weather was lovely, the sun was bright, and Carol did not want to stop seeing her. There was something, too, to the conflict of it all. To the fact that Abby was a point of contention, that she was winning… 

She didn’t hate Harge. She didn’t know him. He was a complete stranger. But she knew Carol. Even as long as they had gone without seeing one another, even as much as they had changed, she knew the perplexing, sometimes infuriating woman beside her inside and out. And she knew that Harge was not good enough for her. 

“He thinks I’m trying to run away.” The words were less even now. Abby blinked. 

And shrugged, “Maybe you should.” 

Carol shot her a look. “Abby…” She said her name like warning—long and drawn out. 

Abby raised her hands in concession. “I’m joking. Well, kind of. I know you won’t at any rate.” She reached for the sleeve of a nearby sweater—mustard yellow, with tight knitted patterns running down the length—and played with the cuff absently as she waited for Carol to reply. 

When she finally spoke several moments later, Carol’s voice was quiet and measured. As if she had just decided. “I wouldn’t want to leave.” 

Abby pressed her lips together and nodded lightly. She’d expected as much, though the words still disappointed her. She wanted so much for Carol to stand up for herself, for her to make a goddamn mess for once. It would do her some good. She tried so hard to keep everything in order, but that order required so much sacrifice… Sacrifice for _Harge_. Abby’s lip curled a little. 

Carol turned to her, holding up a hanger supporting a cardigan—forest green crepe wool with a line of buttons running up its center. She held it in front of her and asked in a decidedly cheery tone, “Do you think this color suits me? I don’t usually wear much green…” 

* * *

* * *

_**March**_

Applause crackled through the silence like rainfall on glass. Carol glanced over at Abby as she and everyone else around them clapped their hands together, ushering the reader away from the podium. 

They had met up at the bookstore to listen to a woman read a through a section of her novel. Abby’d suggested it, of course. She did this often, pulling from a reservoir of past and distant acquaintances she’d met in salons years ago to keep herself informed about any event or show or performance happening in the city. Some such events featured artists that had moved to the states to avoid the war, escaping Germany or London or Paris in a staggering and desperate trickle. Odd ambassadors, they were met with curiosity from those with the privilege of just continuing their lives—if in a somewhat muted, somewhat altered state. 

All in all, Carol hadn’t thought much of the event. As she’d expected, it featured a writer she’d never heard of before—whose name she could hardly recall, even now—and drew a slight crowd of faces she’d never seen before. It still surprised her that she didn’t recognize anyone at her outings with Abby. She was so used to enclosed social circles—people who knew the same people, for whom knowing a certain select crowd was everything. Art galleries and book readings—at least the ones Abby’d taken her to—were open, circulating affairs. The crowd was always eclectic, always new. Always surprising. 

The author at this book reading was of average height, with short, dark hair. She had a pinched sort of expression with a jaw that always looked tense. Carol couldn’t blame her, of course. Given the times. She wore simple clothes—a old suit set with a long jacket and a straight skirt. Both were slightly too large for her. They hung over her frame in a way that squared her shoulders and gave her a boxy silhouette. Carol had to wonder whether it was intentional or not. When the woman had begun to read, she had hunched over the podium and her manuscript, completely absorbed in the words. Her voice had a droning cadence to it that should have been unnerving or monotonous. Instead, it sharpened the textures of the words themselves, bringing the story to life in a way Carol hadn’t expected or experienced before. 

It was such a pleasure, such a wonder, that by its end, Carol was clapping in earnest along with all those around her. Abby, in the seat beside her, looked pleased with her enthusiasm. It was a good day. 

Slowly, steadily, the room was filled with the shuffling and murmuring of people gathering their things, bidding friends goodbye, and leaving for elsewhere. Carol grabbed her jacket from its place draped over the back of the chair and eyed the panoply of bodies moving around her. It was a small gathering. Few people had the time or interest in something as ephemeral as a book reading. Events themselves were a rare sight these days, crowds even rarer still. Carol was almost surprised that anyone else had made an appearance at all. 

The war made everything a little more strained. Resources were rationed. Tempers were thin. Everyone was busy. Everyone, that was, except for Carol. 

She didn’t like to think about it. It made her stomach plummet and her pulse quicken. Her mind clouded with nerves and rushing assumptions about each and every possible thing she could or ought to be doing. She’d _tried_ to do it all. She’d thought about getting a job, but Harge dissuaded her. She’d contemplated volunteering, but everything seemed overwhelming, filled with people more dedicated, spirited, or competent than her. She’d even tried growing a victory garden out on the lawns. A horrible, dirty, exhausting affair. She didn’t see the joy in it, felt no sense of pride at the labor and sweat that went into that hill of dirt, its wire fencing, or the small number of seeds she’d planted. The prospect of several little living things she would have to tend to day after day exhausted her. 

Everything moved so fast these days. The streets were filled with fervor and excitement. Everyone was a team player, doing their part for their country, their community. Even Abby caught that glint of energy every now and again. She said that women were working at an all time high, that, perhaps, things were turning around for them. Equality could be right around the corner. Even in her most apathetic of moods, Abby could not help but be swept up in the momentum of the times. 

Unfortunately, for Carol, such momentum could not carry her. She felt disconnected to everything these days. Dislocated, too detached from the world to participate in it. Something held her back. Perhaps it was herself. Perhaps it was something else. Regardless, the consequence was a world filled with performances that felt fake to her. Everything was a farce of genuine emotion. The Hollywood propaganda encouraging the war effort, the pamphlets that slipped through the mail slot once a week—so, so similar to those that had dotted her childhood. Home front booklets handed out on street corners pleading participation and sacrifice. 

How could she give anything when there was nothing to her? When she herself felt… empty? 

So, she did none of the things she knew she ought to. She did not get a job or volunteer or tend carefully to her victory garden. She only occasionally petitioned Florence to take over the task of fetching rations of sugar and butter for the house. Standing in the long line at her local distribution center felt like a kind of penance. Like something. 

Beyond that, however, Carol had very little to do. Time drowned her, and she held on to her afternoons with Abby like an anchor, like a life raft. 

… 

After leaving the bookstore, they stopped by Abby’s apartment on East 56th street so she could pick up a few things—a book she had been meaning to lend to Carol, a package she needed to send to her friend, Olivia, a heavier jacket to stave off the cold of the growing wind outside. Carol walked up the stone steps of the building carefully, paying close attention to her feet as they settled on each step. There was something thrilling, terrifying even, about going to Abby’s apartment. They always met at public places. Abby had not been to Carol’s house, not really, not inside anyway. And Carol had certainly never been to Abby’s place. With a deep breath, they entered the building’s vestibule. Carol followed her friend up the short flight of stairs toward the apartment. 

Her thoughts drifted back to Abby’s childhood room—that austere playground filled with a thousand secret things. She remembered that little spot beneath Abby’s wardrobe where she’d hidden their letters. And the tin she’d kept in the window seat cupboard full of little cookies purchased with pocket money her father had given her under the condition she not tell her mother. Carol remembered that room well. It was a safe and conspiratorial place. A place for bonding and dreaming. 

But that was then. She doubted very much that adult Abby kept hidden tins of cookies lying about. As they rounded the corner of the neat little stairwell, Abby slowed to a stop outside a door marked with a gold painted number 3. She slid a key into the lock and Carol held her breath. Everything felt significant and vibrant: her fingers hooked loosely around the handle of her purse as it hung, swaying, by her side, the way the collar of her jacket had pulled away from her neck just enough to leave a spot of skin exposed to the cool, the faint scents of cologne and cleaning solution lingering in the air of the hall. Then, Abby opened her door. And Carol followed her inside. 

It was a modest apartment. Carol was surprised to see such a small space. Abby had money. She’d come from money. But the space itself was comfortable, stylish. It was a single apartment with an open living room area that connected to the kitchen by a door and a bar pass-through. Off to the right, an open door revealed a section of sun-dappled bedroom with a large metal framed bed—its headboard a knot of wrought vines. 

Abby dropped her keys into a ceramic dish on a small table just inside the doorway. She rolled her neck, flipping on a light switch to better illuminate the space. 

The living room got little light, it seemed. Abby walked around the room, turning on a few more lamps as she went by. Each stop introduced a brighter, warmer glow to the room. Finally, Abby sighed a content sigh, turned back toward Carol, and, with a smile, said, “Welcome. Come in. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just be a minute.” 

She headed off into her bedroom, leaving Carol to survey the space. 

The living room was neat, artistic. A Danish modern couch and chair—teak wooden frames and square green cushions—sat in the middle of the room facing one another. Against one wall leaned a short bookshelf with a few select books on it. Carol didn’t recognize most of them—some, it seemed, were in French—though her eyes settled on a squat, ochre book laying on its side. _The Well of Loneliness_ , its cover read. Familiarity stirred in her. She reached up a hand and shifted her the collar of her jacket back into place. 

In the corner of the room, near the bookshelf, sat a blue scalloped chair. It looked velvety in the light—soft and inviting. One of the lamps leaned over it in a gesture that labeled it a reading chair. For the first time since walking across the threshold, Carol found herself imagining Abby’s life here. Did she settle in that chair, pull out a book to read each evening? Did she drink wine with it? Coffee? Her favored whiskey, perhaps. 

The whole of the room had an austere quality to it. It had a stillness, like it was holding its breath. Carol couldn’t imagine that Abby spent much time here. The way the record player sat so quietly, the way the few records she had were shelved in such an orderly fashion. Even the desk placed against the wall beside her bedroom, the oldest, most worn piece of furniture in the apartment, held its papers and pens so closely. Carol felt like an intruder upon a sacred space. This was a place of rest, a landing strip before the next journey. 

Abby came out of the bedroom, carrying a wool jacket on her arm. She folded it over the couch before turning back to the desk. She was humming lightly—an absent tune without recognizable form. She did this sometimes, like she was guiding herself through a list of activities, of tasks, via the string of a melody. 

“You know, I faintly recall telling you to make yourself comfortable,” Abby said, still facing the desk. She took something from the wide center drawer—a stamp—and fixed it onto the envelope she held. She turned, quirking an eyebrow and glancing at Carol. “You don’t look very comfortable.” 

Carol let out an awkward laugh. She felt foolish. Exposed in a startling and uncomfortable way. Who was this woman standing in front of her? Who was this Abby? She knew. Of course she knew. But that knowledge surprised her. She had never imagined Abby’s life extending beyond the activities and dinners and tennis courts and stables. Abby was always out there. In the world. She didn’t have a home. In Carol’s mind, Abby was the escape from home. What a startling realization to find that the woman returned to the same space night after night, that she had a place and several rooms that were hers. That were filled with things of her life. 

And, Carol had to admit, it suited her. Much as the space looked too quiet, too poised, it fit Abby like a glove. She navigated the open space, bringing the quiet things to life, weaving around furniture with practiced ease as she gathered and arranged and used the objects dotting the apartment. She looked like she was home. The thought made Carol indescribably and inexplicably sad. 

Abby squinted at her briefly, “How about a drink? Can I get you anything?” 

Carol opened her mouth, found that she had no words to offer, and simply nodded. 

* * *

* * *

**_April_**

Abby stood outside the large white house tapping her foot erratically against the pavement. _Just knock on the door_ , she urged herself. _It is just another dinner, not a big deal._

But it was a big deal. The house before her loomed large, swallowing up the sky. It was only two floors—not even as high as her apartment building—but on either side the house extended forward in two wings. It seemed to reach around her, flanking her on both sides. The effect was an eerie one, like she was facing off against a great and hungry beast. Abby grimaced as she took a short step up onto the wrought iron doormat that lay in front of the door. She breathed a shaky breath, pulled on the hem of her jacket, and knocked three times. 

Lights inside the house glowed through the glass at the top of the door as the evening turned a corner into twilight. The bluish tone that tinged the air deepened in the shadow cast by the house. It was quiet out here in the country. Abby took in the moment, listening to the sounds of wildlife and gently blowing leaves, feet walking up a hall, of a hand turning the doorknob. Carol stood in front of her, smiling, holding open the door. 

“Abby,” she said in greeting. Her voice was warm, gentle, pleased to see her. She was at ease, Abby noted with some surprise. Carol welcomed Abby with two brief air kisses on either cheek before beckoning her to enter the house. 

Abby ducked her head a little. Exhaled into a smile. _Just another dinner_. She stepped across the threshold and followed Carol into her home. 

The door opened on a large entry room—to the right was a white wooden staircase that led up to the second floor. Beyond that, a wide doorway. To the left were two rooms: a dining room and a kitchen. Abby could see the edge of a table and several chairs through one doorway—all a dark, polished wood carved in curling, intricate designs—and a few lines of tiled flooring just barely visible through the other. 

Abby followed Carol past the stairs and into the living room. A wide cream-colored rug lay across the wooden floor. The walls were papered in muted floral designs with white wooden paneling underneath. Two couches, also embroidered in a floral style, sat perpendicular to one another in the room around a beautiful antique coffee table. A few errant chairs dotted the corners of the room. The furniture was all old—elegant and pristine but certainly not modern. Inheritances from Harge’s family, perhaps. Abby’s eyes were drawn to a large fireplace sitting against the exterior wall. Atop it ran a broad mantle upon which two vases and a few pictures sat. A large section of the left wall opened on another room—the same wallpaper and paneling decorating its walls. The majority of the room was taken up by a large grand piano. Alongside it sat some chairs, a bar cart, and a record player sitting just below a windowsill. 

Carol led Abby to one of the couches before leaving her briefly to grab some drinks. She moved with a rehearsed grace, though her hands betrayed an edge of nervousness in their hesitancy and slight fumbling. Abby found the glimpse of nerves reassuring. It was weird for the both of them. A different kind of intimacy—one ushered in with glasses of bourbon and a quiet smile. 

She’d been surprised when Carol had invited her to dinner. The gesture had seemed to come out of nowhere. Just suddenly, one day, Carol decided with a fervor and intensity that shocked Abby that she ought to come to dinner. That it was high time she’d visited Carol’s home and met her family. Abby had agreed to dinner, of course, but she did so with a pang of trepidation. She had not minded their pattern of lunches and outings. There was something decidedly casual about their friendship. Well, as casual as the two of them could be. It was safer that way. They had grown close since that first tennis match, but they had spent all their time together in public spaces. It was always a liminal affair—an outing, an escape from the normal goings on of the day. Even as they began to spend more and more time together, as their activities themselves became a kind of normal, those excursions remained bound in some way. Relegated to leisurely adventures and accompanied errands. 

Meeting the family felt… different. 

It was only in past month that Abby had noticed a shift in things. Carol had started asking a great many questions about the most mundane details of Abby’s life after their brief stop by her apartment. Did she spend much time at home? Did she often have friends over? Where had she gotten her furniture? Why had she chosen to live there? And on and on and on. Abby had not been annoyed by the questions. Far from it. They amused her. There was a new kind of energy in Carol’s curiosity that made their friendship feel a little more lively. A little more in the moment. Carol had often spent much of their time together trying to escape in some manner or other. She seemed pleased by just the opportunity to soak up new things—art, literature, stories, spaces. Anything that she might devote her attention to so that she would not sink into one of her sulking fits. 

With her newfound curiosity, Carol had turned her gaze onto Abby. It was intimidating in some ways. Comforting in others. It changed the way they spoke to one another. Invited conversation about their individual desires and styles and interests. It gave Abby a sense of distance, too, from the version of herself that had known Carol as a girl. She was a different person now. As was Carol. And it seemed that they were finally growing beyond their childhood bond into a friendship that existed separate from all the history that lay between them—even with the wisps of memory that remained. 

Carol sat down beside her, leaning an arm against the back of the couch to prop up her head as she looked at Abby. She took a drink from her glass, sighed deeply, and raised her eyebrows in a kind of tired relaxation. “So. This is my house.” 

Abby glanced about the room again. “It’s beautiful,” she said with a tilt of her head. 

Carol took another sip from her glass. “It’s big,” she amended, her voice rasped around the burn of alcohol. Abby couldn’t decipher her expression. It lay somewhere between irritation and pride. As if she were annoyed that the house had the audacity to be admirable. 

Abby shifted, finally taking a sip of the bourbon, and looking over the space again. “Nice piano,” she said after a moment. She glanced at Carol. “Do you play it?” The corners of her mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. 

Carol smirked, “Every now and again.” She studied Abby’s expression for a moment, “Why?” 

Abby shrugged, “No reason. Though, I’m not sure I’ll believe it until I see it.” 

Carol leaned away from her a little. “Oh?” She furrowed her brow. “You’re angling for a demonstration.” 

Abby looked down at her glass, rolled the liquid around in it, and raised her eyebrows. “I mean, if you insist.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Carol’s. “It does seem a pity to waste such a _big_ and _beautiful_ house.” She glanced away, took a sip. “It’s really the perfect venue for a little… concert.” 

Beside her, Carol let out a rueful and breathy laugh. Without a word, she stood up and walked into the other room to the piano. 

Abby did not hesitate to follow her, settling by the side of the piano, resting her elbows on it. What a surprise, a treat. 

Carol sat on little bench that accompanied the piano, her back perfectly straight, her hands resting flatly on the keys. She cast an exasperated glance at Abby, grimaced, and sighed. Then, she began to play. 

It was beautiful. Something pensive and bracing—pendulous low tones ringing evenly like bells and trickling high notes that wandered and searched. There was something sad to the song, something yearning. After a minute or two, Carol’s fingers slowed and she leaned away from the keys, letting the final notes linger before releasing her foot from the pedal. She looked at Abby, her face closed and defensive 

Abby was stunned. “Wow,” she managed to whisper around her shock. “That was—” She left the sentence hanging. What word would suffice? 

Carol frowned and said flatly, “You’re making fun.” She drew her arms in, covering one hand over the other in her lap. 

Abby raised a hand in defense, “No! I’m not!” Carol looked wary. “Honest, Carol. I thought that was beautiful.” Carol seemed appeased. She pursed her lips. The edge of her indignation gave way to nervous sort of pleasure. She stared at the keys in front of her, and Abby watched her for a moment. She worried that she had said something wrong, that, perhaps, this whole game of playing and performing had been the wrong thing to do. Carol seemed withdrawn now, self-conscious and closed off. Whenever Carol found herself vulnerable, she seemed to resort to one of two reactions. She would grow fierce and irritable or she would get quiet and retreat from the danger. Abby did not want her anger or her fear. She simply wanted to have dinner with Carol. She tried for a small, mending smile, “Well. I can’t play piano. Or anything, really.” 

Carol looked at her for a beat before sliding over on the bench. She patted the open space beside her. “Join me.” 

Abby stared at her. Alright then. She took a quick drink, draining the glass—Carol smirked—and sat on bench. 

They were so close. She could feel the heat of Carol beside her. She tried to focus on the pattern of white and black keys laid out before her, but Carol’s perfume preoccupied her senses: rosewood, datura, the faintest hint of pomegranate. The back of her neck prickled, and her pulse raced. She considered making an excuse, any excuse, to move away. Get another drink. Visit the restroom. Sudden illness. She was suddenly a girl again, suddenly dazzled and overwhelmed by Carol. 

Carol leaned closer to her and placed her hand on the keys. Abby held her breath. Carol glanced at her and said in a steady, pedantic tone, “Pay attention.” 

Abby very nearly laughed aloud. A plane could crash through the ceiling that very moment and she’d hardly notice. All she could see, hear, feel, and smell was Carol beside her. Her skin felt electric, her mind on alert. Like there was a radar deep within her suddenly blaring out alarms at the immediate and inexplicable presence of Carol. 

Carol played across the keys a simple line—easy enough for her to demonstrate but long enough for Abby to get lost in the journey of her fingers wandering down the keys. Carol repeated the movement twice before waiting for Abby to do the same. Abby swallowed hard. 

She tried. She could say that much for herself. The stumbling, awkward notes shook her from her daze, and she released the tension of the moment in a deep, throaty laugh. She was not a musician. 

Carol smiled a little, “It wasn’t that bad.” Abby snorted. “Well, alright, yes. It was…. It was pretty awful.” She joined her in laughing. Their shoulders brushed. 

“Mommy?” called the small voice of the little girl who wandered around the doorway to the living room. 

Abby’s heart caught in her chest. The little girl was a spitting image of Carol, or of what she remembered of Carol at that age. She had the same light blonde hair, the same cheekbones that foretold sharp features, the same water-gray eyes. She could have _been_ Carol were it not for her expression. Rindy had a cautious, defensive look on her face as she regarded Abby. She wasn’t sure what to think of her. Perhaps she already didn’t like her, didn’t want her there. Abby was taken aback. She’d never seen that look on Carol’s face. How odd to see this strange mirror reflecting it back to her. 

“Rindy,” Carol murmured, sliding off the bench and walking toward her daughter. “This is mommy’s friend Abby.” She kneeled down beside the girl. Rindy leaned into her, her eyes still locked on Abby. “Can you say hello to her?” Carol whispered kindly. 

Rindy said nothing for a few moments. Abby stood frozen before her, awaiting judgement. She offered a light smile, waved her hand a little. 

“Hello,” Rindy said finally. She pronounced the word carefully, clearly, without much feeling. A neutral word. Her voice was so light. It rang. 

Carol smiled, ran a hand down Rindy’s back, and caught Abby’s eyes. Then, standing, she guided Rindy gently back into the living room. “Come on, darling, let’s go sit in here. Get cozy.” 

Abby’s lips twitched. “Cozy” was not a word she’d ever expected to hear from Carol. She followed them into the room but held back for permission to join them on the couch. 

Permission came swiftly. With a confused gesture and a bewildered glance. “Come on,” Carol said to her impatiently. 

So, Abby sat down beside the woman she’d known for most of her lifetime and the girl she’d known for most of a minute. It was bizarre and also lovely to see Carol with her daughter. She was so calm next her, keeping a careful eye on the girl without intervening in her exploration of the space around her. Rindy eyed Abby. She looked over her clothes, her face, her hair, her posture—saying nothing as she did so. Carol seemed amused, if a little nervous. Her eyes kept coming back to Abby, as if she were checking that this was okay, this was going well. That _Abby_ was okay with this. 

“I like that,” Rindy said at long last, pointing a finger to a thin gold bracelet Abby wore on her right wrist. Abby looked down at it. It was a simple thing. Lightly engraved and just large enough to fit over her hand. 

“Yeah? Want a closer look?” Abby slid the bracelet off her wrist and held it out to Rindy. The girl took it in hand and gazed at it hungrily. She slipped it over her wrist where it hung, comically large. She held it up to show her mother. 

“Look!” 

“That’s lovely, dear,” Carol said, but her eyes darted back to Abby and she gave her a warm smile. “You know, Rindy, I’ve known Abby since I was your age.” 

Rindy looked up at her mother with wide eyes. She looked back at Abby, curiosity in full force. 

Abby’s lips quirked. “Yeah, and she looked _exactly_ like you do.” 

“Really?” Rindy said, looking back at her mother. “Mommy, I look like you.” Carol laughed lightly and reached up a hand to stroke Rindy’s hair. 

Abby leaned back against the couch and watched them for a moment. It was the happiest she’d seen Carol in a long time. Perhaps ever. “It suits you, you know,” she said after a while. 

Carol looked at her, hummed in response, and smiled a quiet smile. 

Beyond the doorway to the hall came the soft shushing of the front door followed by a light ‘click’ as it was latched closed. Harge was home. 

It was perfect timing. As if on cue, the scent of dinner wafted through the house, and Abby’s stomach gurgled. Rindy looked at her. Abby shrugged. 

Beside the girl, Carol had grown a little tense. She uncoiled from her relaxed position on the couch, her eyes glued to the open doorway. Abby could hear Harge opening the closet in the entryway, stowing a coat, perhaps, and a hat. 

Soon enough, he rounded the corner. He looked tired but stress-free, as if the day had been long but productive. As if he were satisfied, all things said. As soon as he came into sight, Rindy gasped and pushed herself off the couch, running over to greet him. 

Harge’s face broke into a grin. He leaned over, scooping up Rindy into his arms and kissing her face rapidly. She shrieked in delight. “And how are you today, kiddo?” 

In one breath, she reported, “Good. Mommy’s friend Abby let me hold her… this thing.” She showed him the bracelet clutched in her tiny fingers and slid it onto her wrist for good effect. 

Abby’s lips twitched. 

Beside her, Carol stood. “You remember I invited Abby for dinner,” she said. 

Harge looked over Rindy’s shoulder at Carol, then at Abby. He put Rindy down and nodded curtly. “Yes, I do remember that. Hello, Abby.” 

He wasn’t cold. Not exactly. But he wasn’t familiar. Not warm in any way. He ran his eyes over her like he was doing a quick survey of a daunting challenge, a task he’d been putting off. He nodded to her finally, a greeting. 

“Harge.” She returned the gesture. 

Carol glanced at her, seemingly more anxious for their greetings. “Well, let’s not keep Florence waiting. She’ll have dinner on the table by now.” 

Dinner was a tense but overall enjoyable affair. As soon as they’d sat down around the table, Harge had snapped into the role of host. He offered to pass dishes to Abby before anyone else. He inquired about her life in polite and engaging tones. Did she have a job? Not quite, though she volunteered. How did she get so interested in art? A European education. Was she married? Not that she could recall. As with the first time they’d met, Abby’s quips often gave Harge a pause as he decided whether or not her words were sincere. While at times he seemed somewhat annoyed by her jokes, he held on to his jolly demeanor and endured. 

In between his questions for Abby, Harge would include Rindy in the commentary. He would bounce his reactions to Abby’s answers off his daughter, much to her delight. As the meal went on, he seemed to relax into the seat. Put at ease by his daughter’s enthusiasm or perhaps the realization that Abby was not as interesting or provocative as he’d thought. Carol, on the hand, grew quieter. 

Abby looked at her several times throughout the dinner. Each time she was met with a tired but friendly smile. A reassuring smile. A smile that told her not to worry. She did not listen to the smile. 

It was odd. Carol didn’t seem angry or sad—not overtly. She just seemed… subdued. As if there were not enough air in the room for her to share her thoughts. As if she had drawn into herself, just a little. 

Carol did speak up once or twice, elaborating an answer here and there amidst Harge’s interrogation. She spoke about Abby with an earnestness, a kind of pride and deep fondness. Abby wasn’t sure how to feel about it. It felt genuine. The small glances Carol sent her way after each statement let her know that she was not alone at the dinner. That she did not have to indulge Harge’s curiosity by herself. At once, however, there was something combative about the tone. Something defiant. Like Carol was parading her affection for Abby in front of Harge. And it seemed to have an effect. Each time, a flash of irritation would come across his eyes, and he would smile wider. Gesture more intently. Pass more dishes. 

It was an odd sort of warfare—conducted through daggered eyes and saccharine smiles. It was subdued. Rindy didn’t seem to notice, but Abby did. It reminded her of the cloak and dagger dramatics of her mother’s society parties. Appearance was everything, so a game was made of upending the opponent’s composure. 

Abby had little patience for it. 

After dinner, she begged off Carol’s offer of coffee for the long drive home. She was looking forward to the empty car and the quiet. 

“I had a wonderful time. Thank you for having me.” She said it to the both of them, though her eyes lingered on Carol. 

Harge walked over to his wife and looped an arm around her waist, saying, “You’re very welcome, Abby. Do have a safe drive home.” Carol glanced back a Harge, “Um, I’m just going to—” she extricated herself from his arm and walked toward Abby. “I’m going to show her out.” 

Harge looked after her, nodding, before walking back to his daughter. 

Carol joined Abby, squeezing her arm lightly as she drew even with her. Together they drifted toward the door. 

She opened the door for Abby, allowing her to pass through, and lingered in the doorway. 

From her place on the iron doormat, the Aird family looked so domestic, so complete. Harge had picked up a yawning Rindy further into the entryway, but he waited for Carol before taking her up to bed. Carol looked down at the ground, at Abby, back a ways toward her husband and child. Thresholds, indeed. 

“Well,” Abby said, “I should get—” 

“Your bracelet,” Carol said, cutting across her. Abby blinked, her brow furrowed lightly. Carol elaborated, “Rindy still has your bracelet.” 

Abby nodded heavily. Right. The bracelet. Then, she shrugged. “Eh, let her keep it.” 

Carol frowned. “Are you sure? You don't have to—” 

Abby held up a hand, silencing her. “No, please. I can’t remember the last time I was that excited about a piece of jewelry. I— You know, I’ve never been that excited about a piece of jewelry.” She laughed a little, “It should be appreciated. Really, it’s nothing.” She waved a hand and started to turn toward her car. 

Carol reached out to touch her arm, stalling her, “It’s something.” She withdrew her arm and said in a quiet, almost inaudible tone, “You’re a good person.” 

For the second time that evening, Abby found herself at a loss for words. “I—well. Goodnight, Carol.” 

From inside, Harge called out to Carol, “Care, don’t let the cold in.” 

She blinked, stared out blankly at the night air, and took in a deep breath. Abby smirked. Carol’s eyebrows shot up briefly. “Goodnight, Abby,” she murmured. 

And, with another sigh, she withdrew into the house and closed the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the longest chapter I've ever written. It couldn't be helped. I wanted these four scenes grouped together, and they demanded to take as much space as they wanted. 
> 
> I was glad to give Carol a bit of comfort this chapter. She has so much sadness to her at this point in her life. I'm excited to push forward and look toward a bit of joy.  
> And, Abby... well, I just like her. I really do think her animosity with Harge would be a kind of organic, almost light thing for a while. In the book, Carol mentions the three of them riding horses together and spending time as an odd trio, but that doesn't feel right. Not for Abby's character nor for Carol's tendency toward obsessive privacy. I can't imagine she would want to share Abby with anyone. The fact that she does later on with Therese (in my version of events, anyway) is, I think, a testament to how important Therese is to her.


	15. Theatre of the Everyday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harge throws Carol a party to celebrate her 27th birthday and Abby thinks hard on her friendship with Carol.

_**July 1945** _

Dressing had always seemed like an art to Abby. A sort of theatre of the everyday—wherein one selected their costume and, with it, some glimpse of the day awaiting them. Clothing changed the way one moved through the world. Fabrics provided different sensations of resistance. Colors and patterns played off the surrounding architecture and populace. The fit could even change the way one’s body looked to the unassuming eye. 

Abby had learned to appreciate clothing, to appreciate its camouflage and its parade. Since her younger days of mud and carefree abandon, she’d learned to value the magic of dressing. Each outfit offered the slight and subtle manipulation of one’s personhood. On a normal day filled with only one event or meeting and nothing more, dressing was a joy. It was an exciting opportunity to “Choose Your Own Adventure.” It felt like possibility. 

But this was not a normal day. Not in the slightest. For today, Abby had to attend a very special party. 

Abby rolled her neck and stared at herself in the mirror. She’d spent the last hour or so donning and doffing a mountain of outfits. Each had fallen prey to one or another defects: The blue shirred jersey dress wasn’t structured enough. The denim wrap sundress too much so. Silk felt obnoxious, and wool was simply too warm for the weather. It was an hour of sighing, swearing, and throwing off yet another rejected prospect onto the growing pile of clothing behind her. How ridiculous, how utterly absurd to have nothing to wear amidst all the tents and lines of fabric that surrounded her. 

So, she had glared at her reflection—quietly scolding her own slumped shoulders, her pathetic, bowed head. She was better than this. She knew better than this. Clothing was easy. It was admirable or beautiful or… shocking. 

In the end, it was that word right there— _shocking_ —that had awoken her. It carried her into her closet, ushering forth a beautifully pressed pair of tawny high-waisted trousers and a buttoned blouse with puffed sleeves in a deep, deep blue. She knew when she’d pulled on the trousers and wove each button through its matching eyelet that she was taking a risk. This was not some bawdy soiree with her more artistic friends. This was Carol’s birthday party, and the tone of the evening was most assuredly not going to be one of risk. 

Still, as soon as she had seen herself in the mirror, all buttoned up and settled, she knew this was the outfit she would wear. It was precisely the costume she had been looking for. It struck the right tone. She felt a million miles tall—strong and confident and daring. 

But then why, with all that strength, all that confidence, was she still standing there drumming her fingertips nervously against the side of her thigh, pondering the presence of the lipstick she had carefully painted across her lips. 

She took another breath. Was it too much? The red was so, so red. She tilted her head this way and that. Then, in a burst of anxiety, she grabbed a nearby tissue and wiped away the red cream. 

Remnants remained. The cosmetic had stained her lips slightly, and the effect was a pinker pink than she normally saw. Or perhaps that was just a consequence of irritating her lips with the paper of the tissue. Sometimes there was more than one explanation. Sometimes… 

_Why_ was she so agitated? That was the puzzle. Abby threw the wadded-up tissue, dotted and smeared with red, at a small waste basket sitting in the corner of her room. It missed its mark and lay on the floor nearby, mocking her like a little red target. She paced in a small circle. It was fine. Everything was fine. It was just a party. Just a gathering of society people to celebrate her friend’s birthday. What was so terrifying about that? A simple party. She could run circles around society women in her sleep. 

But some part of Abby knew why she was so nervous. She knew that tensions with Harge had grown more brittle, more strained in the past few months. Carol had tried to create opportunities for the three of them to socialize together—an effort to mend her marriage or appease his jealousy, perhaps. Horse riding and a few doubles games at the tennis courts. It hadn’t helped. It’d made things worse. Seeing Carol happy, laughing even, at Abby’s jokes had brought forth a steely sort of look in Harge’s eyes. His greetings to her had grown even more curt—as thin and sharp as razor blades. 

To make matters worse, on the days that Harge joined them, Carol was different. She acted differently. It always seemed as though the effort to coordinate their engagement sapped what little appetite she had for the thing—leaving her withdrawn and often sullen throughout their activities. Abby would try her best to cheer her, and as a result the tension would grow and grow. She expected such a thing would only continue, only repeat, at the party. 

Even more than Harge, there were the guests she could expect to meet. The tight-knit social sphere of businessmen and their tittering wives trading gossip and compliments like stocks, the occasional political acquaintance that spun everyone nearby into a fervor of people-pleasing, the newly married couples with their painstaking performances of nuclear perfection. It was all so constricting and unendurably _proper_. Abby had already done her time attending such functions as a girl. Hell, she did so even these days. Every now and again she would make an appearance at a philanthropic dinner or gala. But then, there was something delicious about attending such an event when she knew next to no one. It was like visiting the circus—ridiculous and amusing and incidental. She could laugh and leave and remain wholly unbothered by the entire affair. 

She did not expect this evening to let her go unbothered. 

So, a part of her was not looking forward to it. A part of her wished she could beg off the party. Take Carol out to lunch instead. Their friendship bloomed best in quiet, intimate communion anyway. 

But Carol had asked her to come. She’d looked her in the eyes so hopefully, expressed such interest in Abby meeting “the ladies” of her husband’s social circle. There was something so familiar about her excitement. So juvenile and familiar. Like that look from so, so long ago when Carol had handed her a ridiculously extravagant invitation and begged her to attend another of her birthday parties. On that day, too, she’d wanted to introduce Abby to her other friends. Abby the enigma. Abby the great reveal. She had taken such pleasure in getting to say “This is my friend Abby. I’ve told you about her.” And Abby had taken such pleasure in being there, in being cherished, in being that special someone of whom Carol was proud to know. 

Abby glared at her reflection. Years passed and she’d learned nothing. She dared her own face to berate her, her own eyes to look away. “Fuck,” she whispered slowly, relishing the scrape of her teeth against her bottom lip. Then, as if by some sudden force of unknown persuasion or daring or defiance, she reached out a hand, picked up the silver tube of lipstick she’d dropped onto the vanity desk beside her, and once again painted her lips red. 

She ran them together, feeling the cosmetic cream even out, and shot one last scowling, scouring look over her reflection before turning and hurrying out of the room to find her bag. 

* * *

* * *

Abby stepped through the front door with all the momentum she could muster. Slowing down meant thinking, and thinking was not her friend at the moment. Her palms had already begun to sweat. 

Her arrival provoked a small hiss of whispers that passed on a current about the entryway. A woman in pants— _however_ did she dare? She felt a strange sort of satisfaction at the muttered slights, the scandalized _well would you look at her’_ s that accompanied her through the door. At once, however, the reaction brought about a prickling at her neck and a nervous energy to her hands. She needed a drink if she was to survive the evening. Of that she was certain. She clinched her jaw and set her course for the drinks cart in the music room. God willing it hadn’t been moved since she’d last visited the place. 

The Aird residence was alight with the soft swell of music—a record, Abby guessed. It was quiet enough to sink beneath the buzz of voices that churned and spiked around her. She could not make out the exact song that was playing, just the barest contours of the sounds and the instruments that produced them. Piano and saxophone and oboe notes trilled throughout the space. 

As she passed by clusters of people grouped together, murmuring pleasantries and exchanging small talk, Abby observed what she could of the party’s other guests. Men wore relaxed suits—business attire that straddled the line between refined professionalism and casual ease. Many had removed their jackets, slinging them over a nearby chair or holding them in the crook of their arms, and some had rolled up their sleeves to stave off the heat. There were more women to be seen than men, of course. It was to be expected. The war was drawing to a close, but not everyone was home. Some would never return. The older women of the party wore their long dresses in silks and fine crepes that they’d pulled from deep within their closets. Artifacts of a time before fabric rationing and the breezier wartime look. The younger women sported sundresses in lighter materials or A-line dresses with cinched waists—some sparkling with sequined embellishment. Bright colors flashed about the room as women moved from one cluster of conversation to the next. 

Abby let out a deep breath. It was hot in the house—people packed the air thick. Plumes of cigarette smoke drifted above their heads in wispy clouds, and she found herself wishing that she could open a window without appearing rude. 

At long last, Abby made it through the living room. The music room was within sight and, along with it, Carol. The blonde woman stood beside the piano in a startling red wrap dress. It seemed to flow about her, as if the fabric were affixed not by ties or belts but by gravity. A magnetic pull. Clinging, holding on tightly. There was a slight sheen to the dress, and the lights of the room played across the lines and creases as Carol gestured and swayed. It was a marvelous sight. She was a marvelous sight. 

As if summoned, Carol looked up and caught sight of Abby. A smile bloomed across her lips, and she placed a quelling hand on the arm of the woman with whom she’d been speaking. Begging pardon, she left the woman and crossed the room to greet Abby. 

She was all warmth and gentle joy as she pressed her cheek against Abby’s, kissing the air beside it. “I’m _so_ glad you’re here,” she said, her voice grand and effusive. “Let me get you a drink.” 

She threaded her arm through Abby’s and together they walked over to the drinks cart. Carol said nothing while she fixed them a pair of martinis, though as she handed one to Abby, she had a glint in her eye and a smirk playing about her lips. Her voice lost its lilt and settled instead into her usual low rumble. “To a bit of déjà vu. They say it’s good for you every now and again.” She raised her glass in a toast and took a deep drink. 

Abby chuckled around her sip. “And,” she added once she’d swallowed down the gin and vermouth, “to you. Happy birthday, Carol.” 

Carol’s eyebrows spiked up briefly. She smiled, nodded a thanks. 

They moved off to the side, settling in a nearby nook of the music room. Abby watched her friend, noticed how the younger woman’s shoulders slowly began to relax from the quiet or the martini or, perhaps, her. 

For a while, they just stood there together, sipping occasionally on their drinks, making eye contact when a bit of gossip or noise drifted their way. Abby began to relax, too. Letting the silence between them soften the sore muscles of her neck and quiet the nagging discomfort in her mind. 

Around them, the party carried on. It was odd that after several minutes of them standing there, no one had asked after Carol—though, Abby noticed that Carol seemed none too bothered about it. A group of young people standing before the fireplace traded outrageous comments, tossing their heads back in waves of laughter. One woman in the group had an especially horrendous laugh. It was sharp and piercing. A shrieking sort of laugh. People nearby had noticed it, too. Abby watched an older couple edge away from the group, casting irritated, somewhat scandalized looks their way. 

“That woman,” Abby said at last, nodding her head in the direction of the group, “She reminds me of someone I met once.” Carol was watching her, listening intently. “On the ship I took back to the States, there was this horrible little woman who would sit on the deck for _hours_ every day, just shrieking. I’m not even sure I know what she was laughing at, but she always seemed to be laughing.” She shook her head lightly, held her glass up to her mouth, “I heard some of the sailors call her ‘The Seagull’ one time.” She took a drink. 

Beside her, Carol hummed. “I’ve never been abroad. Though, Harge and I did take a trip out west once. We drove as far as we could.” She glanced at Abby and smiled a small smile. “It was before Rindy. Not long after we married. I’m not sure why we chose to go, but... We did. We just went.” 

Abby tipped her glass from side to side, watching the spoonful of liquid that remained race around its circumference. “How was it?” 

“Nice. It was easier then. Us, I mean. We were… better.” 

Carol took a rushed drink and said nothing more. She looked over the sea of people standing in her house. “Harge planned this party,” she said after a beat. 

Abby followed her gaze and let the silence steep a moment longer. She’d guessed as much. One could practically see the money draped over the guests as they walked about. Harge came from a society family—like hers but more ferocious. More invested in the game of it. From the look of the guests present, it seemed friendships in Harge’s family lasted generations. 

Abby grimaced. She didn’t like to think of it. Instead, her mind wandered back to the story Carol had told her. She couldn’t imagine Carol in a car with Harge for days on end. What did they talk about? What did it look like for them to enjoy one another’s company? She couldn’t picture them trading off the task of driving—the other haphazardly trying to unfold a map in the passenger’s seat. She couldn’t fathom what music or program they would listen to on the radio, whether or not one of them would sing along or perhaps fall asleep. She couldn’t imagine a fine balance between Harge’s slow indulgence and Carol’s intense fixation—such temperaments were like oil and water. 

But then, Abby had always had a hard time understanding how they’d ended up married in the first place. 

Abby looked at her now empty glass, looked, too, at Carol staring at the piano’s polished surface. Boldly, she said, “I’ll take you sometime. Across the pond, I mean.” She laughed nervously, suddenly feeling giddy and awkward and exposed. She slung a smile across her lips and leaned over toward Carol, nudging the other woman’s shoulder with her own. “We’ll make a voyage of it. I make a fine traveling companion. You’ll see.” 

“I’ll bet you do,” Carol said, laughing despite herself. 

The laugh quickly turned into a groan as her eyes drifted along the throngs of people and landed on a harsh looking woman in a glittering dress. 

She had dark hair—almost black but for the streaks of gray that had run their way through. It was pulled tightly into a bun that sat at the nape of her neck. Not a hair stood out of place. Her face was frozen in a pinched expression, as if she were faintly displeased with everything in sight. She turned and said something to the woman on her right, and a small smile crept over her lips. 

Abby frowned. Smiling looked odd on her. Like it was an unfamiliar concept. “Who is that?” she asked Carol in a low voice. 

“Harge’s mother.” Carol’s lips had thinned. Her face grown sour and cold. She sighed, looking away from Harge’s mother to focus once more on Abby. “She hates me.” 

Abby huffed and shook her head. Of course she did. What a cliché. Was there ever a mother that liked… 

Panic shot through Abby like ice down her spine. Her pulse raced, though she made every effort to keep her voice even. “Y-your mother’s not… here,” She looked at Carol, “Right?” 

Carol held her gaze for a moment, her brow furrowed, before some kind of understanding crossed her face, “Oh, no. God, no. She—My parents actually moved out West last year. My father got a job opportunity, so…” 

Abby released a shaky breath. Thank god. She was not prepared to run into Virginia Kent of all people. She doubted that the woman ever wanted to see her again either. 

“My sister’s here though. Her and her husband.” 

“Elaine. Wow.” Abby didn’t particularly want to see Carol’s sister either. Especially not since she knew Elaine had been the one to show Virginia the letter. She did not say this to Carol. Instead, she raised her eyebrows and asked as pleasantly as she could, “How is she doing?” 

Carol’s lips twitched a little and she shot Abby a quick look. She did not, it would appear, believe the pleasantries for a second. “She’s fine. She lives in Virginia. Has two kids. She seems happy there.” 

“What brought her out here?” 

Carol tilted her head a little, “Harge invited her and Fred up for a visit. That’s her husband. Fred.” She hooked her little finger around a lock of hair that hung near her face and tucked it behind her ear. It fell loose almost immediately. “They came up yesterday.” She sighed. “I like having them here. I do. It’s… It’s nice to see Elaine. And Fred is lovely. He always is. But. It was a surprise, and I wish Harge hadn’t….” She let the sentence trail off, shook her head, and forced a smile at Abby. “Anyway,” she said. 

A part of Abby wanted so very much to take Carol by the shoulders and shake her until she would admit that she was unhappy, that she did not need to be unhappy, that she could change her circumstances. But another part, a larger part, knew that it wasn’t her place to do any such thing. So, instead, she simply held up her empty glass and said, “I’m going to get another. Can I fix you one?” 

Carol smiled, nodded, and handed over her glass. 

… 

The evening went on like that for some time. Carol hung about Abby and they passed the minutes with comments and small conversation. It was nice. There was an ease to it. In their little nook, they did not have to playact niceties. They could just be and chat and, occasionally, laugh. 

Like all things, however, their private quiet came to an end. Soon enough, Carol was spotted by a friend and waved over. She nodded her head toward Abby, inviting her to follow. They walked into the living room and settled in a circle of women. 

And suddenly, they were back to their childhood again. Briefly. Only in flashes. Carol with her crinkled smile, humming and chuckling a low, warm laugh as she introduced Abby to each woman in steady, pleasant succession. Again, there was that fondness, that pride of knowing that set Abby’s heart leaping into her throat. Again, she simply smiled, nodded to each face, and tried her best to remember even one of the names that was spoken. 

The women were not all that bad, as it turned out. They seemed delighted to meet Abby. Delighted to praise her for her daring fashion choices, her taste in art—Carol had told them _all_ about the art museums—her bohemian charm. And, of course, they’d heard of the Gerhards. Margaret was such a lovely woman. Abby simply had to pass on their regards. 

Carol shot Abby a quick smile as she nodded blandly and assured them that she would. They both knew this was a lie. Abby only saw her mother on holidays. 

Conversation began again among the women. They chatted about their hobbies, the economy, the various industries and shifts that had occurred as troops headed home and the workforce shuffled about. Abby was surprised to find a variety of opinions on the matter. Some believed that it was for the best, women returning to the home. Others argued that women deserved a spot in the workforce alongside men. That positions should be made for them if they weren’t already available. 

One woman in a lavender silk dress turned to her. She was one of the older, more spirited of the women. She laid a gloved hand gently on Abby’s arm, signaling her attention. “What do you think, dear? I daresay you must have some opinion on the matter.” 

Abby’s lips quirked. Beside her, she heard Carol huff a light laugh. She nodded, “Yes, I do. I think—” 

A woman pulled at Carol’s arm, laughing and calling in a too-loud voice. “Carol! Carol, dear. Fred just said the _most_ ridiculous thing. I need you to settle this argument for me.” Elaine stood there, holding a drink close to her chest with one hand, bracing herself against Carol with the other. Behind her stood a tall, grinning man. He had a thin face and kind eyes that were only just beginning to show his age. Elaine, too, looked older. She was stouter than she’d been as a girl, though taller too, with her dark hair curled in at its ends and her cheeks rosy from drink. She looked at the circle of faces suddenly attending to her and sputtered an apology struck through with amusement. “Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—" She stopped as her eyes slid past Carol and landed on Abby. She studied her for a moment, her brow lightly creased as if she couldn’t quite pinpoint the familiarity of Abby’s face. Then, recognition dawned upon her and her features evened into a soft sort of surprise. “Is that Abby Gerhard?” 

Abby bit the inside of her cheek but held Elaine’s gaze. She didn’t know what to expect. Would she, like Carol had at first, act as though nothing had passed between them? Would she assume Abby knew she’d been the one to share the letter? Did she even remember the letter? 

But, as she looked into Elaine’s eyes, Abby knew the she remembered. The stiffness of her smile, the edge in her eyes told Abby that she more than remembered—she suspected that nothing had changed. 

Elaine’s eyes drifted between Abby and Carol. Abby unconsciously shifted away from the blonde woman, “I didn’t know you two… still knew each other,” Elaine said after a beat. She lingered on Carol before settling back on Abby. “Abby, you are… certainly all grown up. My, oh my. You have paved your own road, haven’t you? Those pants are quite something.” Beside her, Carol’s posture grew severe. Abby bit harder on her cheek, willing with all her might that Carol would let the dig slide. 

“I quite like them,” said a voice from within the circle of women, “They’re very Katharine Hepburn. It’s all the rage in Hollywood, you know.” She was a young woman. Mousy and thin with a bright voice. A veritable stranger, but Abby could have kissed her for the release her blithe words brought about. 

“Yes,” she sped to explain, “I went out and bought them as soon as I read an article about her. She said she detested stockings, so pants were the way to go. I couldn’t agree more.” Abby was babbling. She knew she was babbling. The words spilled out of her in a rushed, cheery tone. To her relief, the women around her did not seem to notice. They only bobbed their heads in polite acknowledgment. 

Elaine, however, remained skeptical. “Yes, well. They’re very _progressive_.” She pronounced the word as if it were something distasteful. 

Carol took in a sharp breath and eased out of the gathering. “Elaine, you said you had something you wanted to tell me…” She took her sister’s arm and led her off. Fred cast a curious look at Abby before following them out of the room. 

Abby turned back to the women still standing around her and released a measured breath. Well. Now what? 

The older woman in the lavender dress clucked, shaking her head. “Never you mind her, dear. She’s been drinking.” 

The heat had begun to press in on her again. The air was stifling. Thick as molasses. Abby sucked in a breath and felt as though she would drown in it all. She plastered a garish smile on her face and begged a series of half-formed apologies to the women, excusing herself for the outdoors. 

She slipped out the back—through the little side door leading out of the music room into the gardens behind the house. No one minded her. 

It was dark out in the lawn. She could only just make out the rough outline of the flower beds and the victory garden running along the left fence. A stone statue stood over a few of the bushes dotting the center of the lawn, just visible from what little light spilled out of the windows. 

Abby sat herself down on one of the small benches that dotted the yard. It was chilly now that the sun had gone down, and the wind nipped at her arms. She released another breath—longer this time, deeper—and bent over to lay her head in her hands. 

It wasn’t that her encounter with Elaine had been all that hurtful or even interesting. All things considered it was fairly tame. More than she could have expected, anyway. 

She’d faced plenty of sneers and pointed comments from women that presumed her sexuality and, with it, some nefarious intentions or innate impropriety. It was tiresome, but it was common enough. At the end of the day, most wouldn’t outright say what they meant, and their aggression remained passive, petty expressions of disgust. Such things came with the territory. She wouldn’t have survived this long if she hadn’t learned to grow a thicker skin. 

No, it wasn’t the comments. Or even Elaine. Not really. It was… all of _this_. This absurd dance she was doing. Why was she here? What did she think she was playing at, pretending she and Carol could just be friends and leave the whole matter of… sexuality out of it? It was torture just going on pretending there wasn’t this thing between them. This growing connection fostered by mutual admiration and years upon years of familiarity. And intimacy. Surely all the electricity she felt every time she stood beside Carol wasn’t one-sided. Surely, even if it was a pale, platonic version of Abby’s own, Carol felt _something_ between them. 

Abby was sure that deep down Carol already knew about her. She had to. But… even so, the thin barrier of denial that separated them from the bald truth held fast. And, much as she wanted to shrug it off, to invalidate that denial as a technicality, nothing more, she could not help the panic that arose in her throat at the distinct possibility that Carol would look at her the way Elaine had mere minutes ago. Thinly veiled disgust and immediate mistrust. 

What if she didn’t feel the things Abby felt? What if, upon the sudden and undeniable realization of Abby’s sexuality, she withdrew, horrified by the closeness, the confidences, they had shared? What if she felt betrayed? 

Had she felt betrayed _then_? So many years ago… 

Abby searched for the answer, but the truth of the matter was that she simply did not know. After all this time. It made her feel so stupid. So stupid she could almost laugh. 

Almost. 

Because there was that, too. That still-unresolved bundle of problems that they just kept pushing out of sight. It was always just there, on the periphery. Waiting to be unpacked, weighing on their minds heavy as lead. 

Abby swallowed around the lump in her throat as she rose into a sitting position once more. Her chest ached. She wanted so very much to vault the picket fence and run as far and as fast as she could away from this house and its painful people. She sucked in sharp breaths, blinked at the stars. They offered no secret wisdom, just winking outlines of a thousand tragic stories that had come and gone. 

Abby stood. She needed to leave. She needed to go home and think—about them, about… all of it. 

As she turned back to the house, Abby took in the sight of the party framed by windowpanes. Warm light washed over everyone as they pantomimed laughter and conversation. The mixture of heat and alcohol had persuaded most of the guests to remove their jackets or throws—with that release came an ease of looser movements and broader gestures. 

It was getting late. 

Abby made her way through the garden door once more, weaving gingerly around the decidedly thinner crowd of people. It seemed she was not alone in leaving. 

She let her weary eyes scan the faces that remained, looking for Carol so that she could say her goodbyes. Somehow, the lesser number of people made the effort more difficult. Those that remained had spread out, unconsciously reveling in the increased space. 

Finally, her eyes caught a glint of red. Carol. 

The woman was standing beside Harge, surrounded by four other people—two men and two women. Couples, perhaps, though it was hard to tell. She was once again posed in that perfectly straight, perfectly closed stance. Her eyes moved from face to face, following the exchanges of her companions. A slight smile played about her lips. Occasionally, her eyebrows would spike or bend in response to something someone said. 

It was mesmerizing to watch. That perfect performance of ease and vague interest. 

Carol in that moment reminded Abby a great deal of Virginia Kent. She had that same subtle power of magnetically conducting conversation without driving it or even participating all that much. Just enough to be polite. To let those around you know that you were indeed paying attention. Abby had always felt a mixture of awe and fear of Mrs. Kent. She was a hard woman to feel entirely comfortable around. Deciphering her expressions was a lost cause. Predicting her responses even more so. 

Unlike Virginia, Carol did not have the same fire in her eyes about it all. Not quite. Underneath her mask of polite interest, Abby could see that edge of dissatisfaction that most others ready as mysterious intrigue. She was growing tired. Irritated. Abby wasn’t sure when that happened, when she’d grown tired of these sorts of things. She’d always liked them when they were girls. 

The thought brought her attention back to her aching chest, her threadbare mind. Was life always an exercise of loss? It certainly seemed so. There were so many things that had changed since she had grown. So much enthusiasm and joy she’d left behind for freedom and the vague promise of adulthood. It felt all the more poignant to dwell on such things now. Here. In this house that was so very much and not at all like Carol’s childhood home, this party which echoed other parties on other nights. Must history repeat itself so mercilessly? 

She looked again at Carol as the younger woman released a deep, brassy laugh. That, at least, she could not fake. She looked, too, at Harge standing beside her. The expression of fondness that crossed his face as she laughed. The twinkle in her eye. The delight that emanated from them in gentle waves. 

Abby grit her teeth and took a steadying breath. She turned instead to head out the door—willing for every last ounce of momentum to carry her far from the thoughts the evening had grown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, who doesn't want to see Abby in a Katharine Hepburn outfit?


	16. The Unsettling Nexus Between Now and Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Puppy Episode

**_January 1946_ **

Fenced in by a wall of snow on either side, the road rushed at Abby as she guided the car toward the city. It was a Friday morning, the fourth of January. Abby and Carol were heading to have lunch at Scotty’s. It was a favorite spot of theirs—a short skip away from a great many stores with an interior that allowed for privacy. One never knew what conversations would arise or where the day would take them. It was good to keep one’s options open. 

Heat spilled out of the car’s vents, pooling at their feet until the air was so warm they thought to remove their coats. The steady rumble of the engine was soothing. It lulled them into a peaceful sort of stupor. A steady soundtrack for the stretching road and the quiet, snow-laden landscape that raced around them. 

Abby had always loved driving. It felt like flying, like launching herself into the air in some great jump but never hitting the ground. Just… going on. There was something comforting in the care and attention required to guide the vehicle onward. Something courageous, too, about the set of decisions it required. The mixture of rapt attention and passive quietude that made up the act of driving. One’s mind could wander as they drove. Just the pure instinct to react, to follow, to fly would remain. 

On this particular drive, Abby’s mind felt a million miles away. She found herself drawn again and again to attend a sinking, pitted feeling that sat deep in her chest. She wasn’t sure when it’d started. The birthday party perhaps. Or before. It was a sense of things being not quite right in the world. In her life. It dogged her, breaking into her concentration at the oddest of moments, interrupting any sense of peace she might try to enjoy. 

“My god, it looks cold out there,” came Carol’s voice from the passenger seat. Abby blinked, glanced at her, and shifted in her seat. The light of the morning struck her eyes, seeming suddenly too bright. Carol rummaged through her purse, “Rindy was supposed to have a playdate with one of her new school friends. She really has taken to it. School. As soon as she comes home, she simply has to tell me _everything_ she did during the day.” She pulled out a tube of lipstick and a compact, twisted open the tube, and applied the cosmetic to her lips, “It’s darling, really.” She ran her lips together, evening out the lipstick and tilting her head to assess her work. “I do hope Harge remembered to tell Florence to cancel with Emily, though. It’s a shame, but I don’t want her catching a cold…” 

Abby hummed a sound of agreement or understanding and turned the steering wheel a little to the left, easing into the curve of the road. 

“I don’t know that Harge will do it. He’s been _so_ focused on work recently. And he accuses _me_ of being absent? I mean, really.” 

Abby tilted her head, stretching the muscles of her neck and wincing at the small sound of her joints cracking. She hadn’t slept well the night before. “I’m sorry. That’s not fair. He’s a hypocrite.” 

Carol made a noncommittal noise, hedging a response to Abby’s accusation. Abby glanced at her, relieved to see that she looked pleased all the same. “Yes, well. That’s just the way it is with marriage. You throw all sorts of expectations at another person and never quite notice when you fall into the same traps yourself.” She sat quietly for a moment before huffing out a subdued laugh. “That’s not very good, is it? I’m making excuses.” She shifted, turning to look more directly at Abby. Abby glanced at her again, her eyes pulled, as always, by Carol’s magnetism. Carol looked stubborn, impetuous, somewhat puckish. “You know,” she said pointedly, “I spend so much time when we’re together complaining about Harge. You must be tired of it. If _you_ had a husband, I could be bored right alongside you as you went on and on about your miseries.” 

“I don’t think I need a husband to have miseries,” Abby muttered. She pressed down on the brake slowly, and the car rolled to a stop at the traffic light. She kept her eyes on the light, willing it to turn green. She did not want to see Carol’s amused face—amused at her own teasing and the words she thought were so clever. 

“Of _course_ you don’t,” Carol chuckled. She was shifting again, sweeping a hand up to banish stray hairs from her face. “I just meant—” 

“What did you mean?” Abby asked suddenly, fiercely, swinging her head to look at Carol directly. She was tired. 

Carol closed her mouth and watched her. Abby turned back, released the brake, and pressed the car forward once more. 

“What did you mean?” Abby asked again. Lightly this time, with a rueful laugh. Her eyes had begun to sting. She blinked quickly, three times, to stave off the frustrated tears. _Not now_. 

Carol looked down. “I… don’t know. I was just talking. Trying to make conversation.” She sounded defensive and hurt. Like she didn’t understand what had warranted such an outburst. 

But she had to know. She _had_ to. Abby’s temper spiked again. What the hell were they _doing_? 

“I’m sorry that I upset you,” Carol said after a few moments. The words were contrite, but her voice was still. Toneless. Very nearly petulant. 

“You didn’t—” Abby stopped, breathed, gripped the wheel until her knuckles ran white. They were getting into the city now, and the roads had grown more congested. They crawled along the pavement in a line of slow, tightly packed cars. “You know why I don’t… Why I’m not married. Right?” 

Again, Abby kept her eyes on the road, the cars in front of them, the windshield, the wheel—anything but Carol. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her neck and cheeks burned. Her breathing was so loud. Had it always been this loud? And the car—so quiet. Why hadn’t she put on music? Or something to dull the terror that was waiting, that was talking about these things aloud… 

Carol cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. Abby could hear her running a hand down the front of her coat. “I don’t know what—” 

“Carol.” It was a sob more than a word. A plea. A curse. A cry of anguish. She was livid and terrified and frustrated beyond measure. They couldn’t keep doing this. This stupid dance. Abby let her head fall forward, resting her brow against the upper ridge of the steering wheel. Why did everything have to be so hard with them? Why did it always feel like every interaction was a matter of life or death? 

Abby squeezed her eyes shut, breathed in deeply, and exhaled in a steadying stream. Three times. Slowly. Beside her, Carol kept her silence. 

This was not how she had hoped things would go. 

“I’m sorry,” Abby said quietly at long last through an exhale. “I’m not trying to—I mean… It’s hard. To find the right words. I just don’t know how to—” She stopped as her voice grew louder and her frustration rekindled. Easy. Slow. One step at a time. She tried again: “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry.” Her heart drummed against her chest as if something inside were knocking at the door. She felt at war with herself, sorry that this was where they were now. That this was happening _here_. But, at once, underneath it all was a thin, thin sense of release approaching. Now they _had_ to talk about it. 

Carol continued her silence. Abby turned her head, stealing a glance before she leaned back in her seat. Carol’s lips were pursed. Her hands neatly folded in her lap. She looked small in that moment. Unsure and a little wary. She moved, opened her mouth a fraction to speak—but stopped herself before she could say anything. Her brow furrowed. 

Abby watched her for several silent beats. She held onto the moment like it was something sacred, something crucial. And, after all, wasn’t it? It was the point of no return. This was the volta, the shift, the change to come. So rarely did such a moment present itself in such clear terms. She found herself wanting to stay in the moment, wanting to let herself linger for _just one more second_ in the threshold. 

Cars edged forward as stoplights turned and pedestrians made it to the other side of the walkway. Abby held the wheel with firm hands. 

“I think I’m just trying to say… Or, _tell_ you—I just…” She had to keep going. She had to just _say_ it. “I… prefer women.” 

The air was fractured glass, seconds from shattering. Every sound was sharp. Every color more vibrant than it had ever been. The heat was suddenly too much and not enough as Abby struggled to breathe through the boiling warm and felt a chill creep along the back of her neck. 

“I… I thought you knew,” she added in a small voice. An excuse or maybe an apology. Maybe both. All the energy she had summoned, all the insurmountable fears she had conquered—all of it rushed out of her being in the blink of an eye. She was a broken dam. All she held now was emptiness. 

* * *

* * *

If she was being honest, she did know. She always had. Much as she tried not to think about it, much as she wanted to ignore all the breadcrumbs that laid so clearly a path to the truth… She had known. 

Carol turned to look out the window at the cars flowing along the road beside them. How many of them held people in similar situations? With similar dilemmas. Similar secrets… 

She had no clue what to say to Abby. That was the truth of it. What could she say that would make any sense of the situation? What words would articulate the confusion and swirling mass of feelings that were overtaking her brain? 

Because _of course,_ Abby was… _that way_. Of course. The books in her apartment. The women that came into her life for a weekend and were never mentioned again. The letter… God, the letter. 

But knowing was not understanding. Knowing didn’t make sense of her feelings, and her feelings were a great, knotted mess. 

Carol’s fingers curled in against her palms. Feeling her nails bite skin was a relief. A reminder of reality, of her body inhabiting space in some coherent and sensible way. Her mind kept running back in time, seeing over and again Abby’s frustrated face and sharp voice. Abby was a woman of passion—she expressed her rage and anger and irritation freely and without hesitation. But never at Carol. 

Carol had always thought it a kind of privilege that she was forever in Abby’s good graces. A favored friend. The two of them united against the world. Even when Carol lost her temper and snapped at her, Abby remained that steady, solid support. Patiently letting her fume and talking her down once she was done. 

The world said women like Abby were a menace. Predatory, perverted, sick creatures. Criminals. They suffered from _inversion_. Or they’d been traumatized as children by a parent in some way that set their whole sexual development off course—or so the doctors said. But none of it made any sense. Not with Abby. Abby, who was strong and smart and perhaps the most well-adjusted person Carol knew. Abby who was _Abby_. Her friend. Someone she cared for deeply… 

But what of the women that came and went in Abby’s life? Were they… lovers? Other friends who decided, upon learning the truth of her, to run away, disavow her? Was it a series of casual affairs? Why did none of them stay? Why didn’t Carol meet hardly any of them? 

Were those women like Abby? Did they live openly and casually—even if only amongst themselves? How did that work? It wasn’t legal, certainly. Or socially acceptable. Everyone knew that women like that existed. Men, too. But polite company didn’t talk about it. If ever you found out, you turned the other way or pretended that you didn’t know. 

Carol had done that, hadn’t she? She’d done what she was supposed to. She hadn’t left… just, turned the other way. Let those secrets lie. 

But that wasn’t what Abby wanted—and _that_ was perhaps more of a puzzle than anything. Abby wanted her to know, to admit that she knew. She wanted her to say that it was okay. Carol knew that, too. But, how? It was all so complicated, so confusing. 

Abby had said she loved her. The letter… That damn letter. It was long gone—likely burned in the fireplace by her mother years and years ago, but it didn’t matter. The words were still sharp and fresh and perfectly clear in her mind. She’d felt such feelings about the letter. Fear, certainly. Worry. But comfort, too. It was good to be loved, wasn’t it? And it hadn’t felt dangerous. It’d felt… nice. Warm. Even if everything had gone to shit right after, _that_ moment, _that_ thing between them was okay. Good. 

Wasn’t it? She didn’t know. The moment the thought formed in her mind, it slipped away—corroded and riddled with doubt. 

Carol supposed there was something admirable about the way Abby insisted it be out in the open. Something confident—confident in a way that seemed wholly disproportionate to the situation. She wasn’t apologizing for it. She wasn’t… she was just saying it. Just letting Carol know… 

_I… prefer women._

It was just a statement. How could be just a statement? Wasn’t it bigger than that? Wasn’t it supposed to be a sin or an illness or _something_ to be ashamed of? To feel guilty for? 

Carol looked at her hands. She didn’t want Abby to feel guilty or ashamed. That wasn’t it. She didn’t want her to feel like she was wrong—morally or mentally or in any way. So, shouldn’t she be glad Abby’d told her? Happy for her? 

She hazarded a glance at the woman beside her. Abby was frowning severely—her face completely still as she looked out at the road and drove. She didn’t look happy or relieved that she’d told Carol. She looked… disappointed. Upset. Carol let out a quiet, shaky breath. This wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want Abby to feel disappointed—in her or in herself. Whichever it was. 

She cleared her throat and ducked her head, returning her gaze to her closed hands. “I did. Know.” She could hear Abby’s hair brushing against her coat as she turned to look at her. “I think. Or—I don’t know. I think I did. There were… signs, I suppose.” 

Abby was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice had a dry edge to it, a hoarseness that hadn’t been there before, “Were you… I mean—” She paused. “You never said anything, or…” Carol glanced at her, her brow creased slightly. Abby waved her hand, backtracking, “Not that I expected you to, but, you didn’t—You still, _we_ still spent time together.” 

She looked at Carol. In her eyes was a desperation that bordered on painful. Carol knew what Abby wanted her to say. She knew that Abby wished she would nod and smile and assure her that everything was fine. Nothing was changed. She didn’t care one whit about Abby’s preferences or lifestyle choices. It would be alright. _They_ would be alright. She knew that those pleading eyes were asking her if it bothered her, if it was okay, how she felt about it. 

But the questions felt too big to grasp, to manage. How could she give her the answers when she didn’t yet know them herself? 

“We did.” She held Abby’s gaze for a moment, wishing more than anything that she could say something else, something stronger, more comforting. 

Abby nodded slowly and turned off the ignition. Carol blinked, looking around to find that they were no longer moving. That they had, in fact, pulled into a parking spot alongside the restaurant. She looked over the restaurant’s wooden frame, its glass windows, the curtains hung just inside. Right. Scotty’s. 

Abby held her keys in her lap. She pushed the metal ring that linked them back and forth, listening to the dull clicking sound it made as it settled against the side of each brass key. “Do you still want to get lunch?” 

It was a quiet question. Not hesitant, not penitent. But quiet. It was a smaller sort of question. A “how are you feeling about this” on a more manageable scale. 

“Yes. I would like that,” Carol said softly. She looked at Abby—her friend who always tried so hard to make her feel less alone. She deserved better than this. She deserved so much more. And so, Carol added after a beat, “Do you?” Abby looked at her, puzzled. “Still want to get lunch?” 

Abby choked out a small, gasping laugh—part relief, part surprise—and nodded. “Yeah. I would.” 

* * *

* * *

The restaurant was busy. A short line of patrons lingered in the entryway as they waited for the hostess to seat them. Abby cursed them silently for the delay. She needed a drink and a mission—something to occupy her mind and her hands. Not more _waiting_. It was miserable. Carol stood beside her, saying nothing. Every now and again, they would catch each other’s eyes and exchange small, meek smiles. Abby wanted to scream. To rage. To do anything but _smile_ through the excruciating mess that was this morning. 

But she’d come in. That was something. She’d wanted to have lunch after all. Maybe… 

Maybe nothing, Abby scolded herself. She was in dangerous waters. Her mind kept running, kept dreaming up possibilities and hopes. That everything would be fine or that Carol’s distance was a front for other feelings. All lies. Fodder for her own self-delusional fantasies. For the second time in her life, Abby had fallen for the joke that was her feelings for Carol. For the _second time_ she had let herself believe things that weren’t true, that couldn’t be true. Only this time, it was far more humiliating. Far more horrible. Because here they still were. Standing side by side in purgatory. 

A gathering of people came around the corner pulling on coats and shifting scarves into place. They murmured fond goodbyes and well-wishes to one another before filtering out the door in smaller couplings. A wave of cold washed over Abby as the door let in air from outside. She shivered and released a frustrated breath. 

Carol pulled her fur coat tightly around her and glanced over. “Are you okay?” 

Abby grit her teeth and managed a pained smile. “Yes,” she said. It was a lie. She was not okay. Nothing about today was okay. Why hadn’t she just kept her mouth shut? Let Carol’s comment slide. Why did she always fuck up every good thing that came her way? 

After an intolerable ten minutes passed, the hostess approached them. She was a short brunette with a bright smile. She beamed at them, inviting them to follow her to a booth. Abby cast a look at Carol before following the woman. She felt suddenly uncomfortable being so near this other woman around Carol. It was nothing. They were simply walking to a booth. The woman was doing her job in directing them, and yet Abby felt profoundly exposed. She stayed several steps behind the woman as she followed her. Tried to keep her head up, looking past her. 

She felt ridiculous. This was ridiculous. Stupid. She was acting like a child caught in the act of stealing a sweet. Usually, her interactions with people were easy. Fluid. She exchanged banter. Smiles came without thought. Laughter flew from her with abandon. Now, her body felt stiff, awkward. 

The hostess slowed and pointed them to a wine-red vinyl booth—a little wooden nook in a line of similarly ensconced booths. This was why they liked the place. It was snug almost, with dark, intimate lighting produced by little lamps that dotted the tables. It was hard to see or hear anyone outside of the booths. They became little worlds within which one could immerse themselves in conversation or companionship—or just drink and listen to the piano notes that wandered through the air. Abby thanked the woman—and immediately wondered if her voice sounded too intimate, if her smile had been too warm. She wondered what Carol thought of the interaction, _if_ Carol had even noticed. 

She grimaced to herself and set to watching for the waiter as if it would make them arrive sooner. 

Across the table, Carol cleared her throat and watched her. 

Part of Abby wanted to laugh. Not too long ago they’d been in such a similar situation feeling like strangers to one another. Wondering where their tennis matches would take them, if it would lead to friendship or just fizzle out into nothingness. That evening, the tone had been horribly awkward. They hadn’t known what to say to one another. The elephant in the room that was their history kept getting in the way. How do you introduce yourself to someone you already knew? Knew _well_. But they’d gotten past that, hadn’t they? All it had taken was a nervous breakdown and a lot of alcohol. 

Maybe there was hope for them yet, Abby smirked to herself. She was edging toward the first with an eye out for the second. 

“I—” Carol started. Abby’s eyebrows raised as she turned to look at her. Carol huffed a laugh. “I don’t know what to say, but I feel like I should say something.” 

Abby made a noncommittal sound—a little like a laugh, a little not. She felt surly—more at herself than at Carol. Though, a little at Carol as well. She was glad they were having lunch—glad that Carol had wanted to—but she was also so very tired. She’d filled her quota of emotional exhaustion for the day. She didn’t want to start back up again. 

Carol picked up the folded paper napkin in front of her and rang it in her hands, tearing off small sections of the corner. “Do you...” She stopped, breathed, and put down the napkin, placing her hands flatly over it to quash the temptation to continue. “Are you… seeing anyone?” She grimaced as if she regretted the question immediately. 

Abby’s lips twitched despite herself. “No,” she said. “Well, not really. Nothing serious. I get drinks with people sometimes, but it’s not…” She let herself trail off. She rested her hands on the edge of the table and absently rotated the ring on her little finger. 

Carol nodded, ran her eyes over the table and the wall and the carpet, following it to where it disappeared behind dark wooden dividers. She sighed, pulled out her purse and, with it, the little silver cigarette case. “I use this all the time, you know.” She smiled at Abby, showing her the case, “You were an _angel_ to give it to me. I take it with me everywhere. It’s an absolute life saver.” 

Abby hummed a laugh, “I’m glad.” 

Carol opened the case, withdrew a cigarette, and offered one to Abby. She accepted. They lit the ends and passed a few moments more in silence, sucking in air and releasing plumes of white gray smoke. Abby pulled at the silk scarf tied around her neck, loosening its knot. 

A waiter arrived, delivering wine-red menus that matched the vinyl of the booths. Carol murmured an order without opening hers—salmon on rice with vegetables, a dry martini. Abby followed suit—whiskey, neat, and the braised chicken. He nodded, took back the menus, and headed off to fill their orders. 

Carol returned her gaze to Abby. Abby returned her gaze to her rings. She wore two most days. Silver ones. On her third and little fingers. They caught the lamp light as she exhaled smoke. 

“Does your family know?” Carol asked, breaking the silence again. “Your father was always so… supportive of you.” 

Abby tilted her head. “Ah, no. He actually died a few years ago. So…” Carol opened her mouth. “But he wouldn’t have…. anyway. He’s the one that sent me to live with Charlie, so I can’t really imagine he would have been too pleased.” 

“Abby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” Carol was looking at her so intensely, her face sad, pitying. Abby could hardly stand it. 

“It’s alright. It was sudden.” Abby forced a smile and shrugged. “And, my mother thinks I’m in a nice healthy relationship with a man named John.” 

Carol frowned. “Does John… exist?” 

Abby released a barking laugh. It was a loud laugh—unexpectedly so. The waiter returned, laid out two cocktail napkins onto the table, and placed their drinks upon them. Carol murmured a thanks, and he departed. 

Abby picked up her drink, still smiling, “Yes. He is a real person.” She nodded her head to the side. “He’s a friend. I mentioned him once and my mother just… assumed. I did not correct her.” Her brows shot up briefly, and she took a drink. The whiskey was warm, sweet—then burning. She sighed contently. At long last. 

Carol took a sip of her own drink. “So, he’s your…. Oh, there’s a word for that, isn’t there? For a fake beau?” 

Abby’s lips quirked. “A lavender marriage.” She nodded. “Though… we’re not even pretend-married, so perhaps it is more of a ‘lavender rumor.’” 

Carol chuckled quietly. “A lavender marriage.” She repeated the words like she was trying them on, seeing how they felt. She hummed. “I, ah, ran into them once, you know. Your parents. It was while you were still abroad, I think. Your mother was very kind to me. I didn’t think she would be.” 

Abby looked at her. “My mother always loved you.” 

Carol smiled and took another sip, holding the olive back with her index finger. Quiet fell between them again, but it was softer now. Easier. Abby released a breath, trying to relax into her seat. 

Carol laid her hand on the base of her glass as she set it down, pinched the stem between two fingers and twisted it a little, turning it. The cocktail napkin gathered in several curving peaks. “Were you… in Europe, did you know, or…?” She looked up at Abby. 

Abby took in a breath and nodded slowly. She sat up, circled her hands around her glass. “Yeah. Yes.” 

“What happened there?” 

Abby’s eyes ran along the back of Carol’s side of the booth. “Ah, life?” She chuckled lightly, nodded. “At first, nothing happened. Or, nothing special anyway. I went to school. I made friends. Normal things. It was nice. I had a lot of freedom at Charlie’s. He was always so busy with his research, and he encouraged me to figure out what I was interested in. What I wanted to spend my time on. I guess I took that lesson pretty broadly.” She smiled and looked down at her hands. “Anyway, one weekend I was invited to Paris with some friends.” 

Carol shook her head in a kind of amused disbelief. 

Abby held up a hand weakly, “I know. I felt the same way. It was… amazing. Tense. Because of the war. People were a little more tense then, but....” She paused, ran her forefinger along the creased edge of her cocktail napkin. “We were staying with Rosie’s aunt—Rosie was the one who invited me. We had classes together. And, we went to a salon. We listened to authors and musicians and watched a dance troupe perform.” She shrugged, smiling. A light laugh broke through her smile. “God, it was just—It was everything I’d ever wanted, you know. There were all sorts of people there. There was such interesting conversation in so many different languages. It was founded by this woman that wanted to make literary salons for other women…” 

Carol glanced down at her glass, “Other women. Like…?” Her eyes flicked back up to meet Abby’s. 

“I… Yes. Well, I didn’t know at the time, and Rosie certainly hadn’t… It wasn’t exclusively for women… like that. It was for all sorts of people. But the founder Nat Barney, she was.” 

Carol nodded. She continued to ask questions about the salons, Abby’s time at Cambridge with Charlie, her friends, the trip. Abby answered as best she could, drawing comfort from the memories and experiences that returned to her. It had been a good time in her life. There were struggles, too. Of course, there were. But by and large it had been a happy time filled with so much growth and love. After a while, Carol grew quiet. She ran her finger down the side of her fork, hummed a short, pensive note, and asked, “You said you learned about art from a friend when you were abroad. Was that where you met her?” 

Abby watched her. Carol was smiling softly. She had that perfectly even tone in her voice—not exaggerated like it was at parties. Not cold like it often was with Harge. But measured. Steadying. Careful. Like she was walking on eggshells with every word. 

She was searching for something. For some story, some confirmation she knew Abby would eventually provide. 

And, Abby had a feeling she was about to do just that. Her heart skipped a beat as she nodded, wet her lips, and released a breath. “Yes. The first night. Her name was Marion. She was an artist—a painter. Oils, mostly. I learned a lot from her. We, uh… saw each other a lot while I was over there.” 

“Marion,” Carol’s low voice pronounced the name slowly, her eyebrows raising slightly. Again, she simply said the word, rolled it around in her mouth. Abby studied her face, looking for some sign or signal of what she was thinking. Then, she said, “Have you keep in touch?” 

Abby frowned. Carol was looking down at her glass, staring into the clear liquid as she stirred the toothpick and the olive in a small orbit. It was such a nonchalant act. Such a look of absent, vague interest. Like she was asking it out of politeness more than anything. Only her posture gave her away—it was a little too rigid, too straight. A little too poised. Abby shook her head. “Ah, no. She—well, we didn’t part on very good terms.” 

“But you loved her.” 

It wasn’t a question though it begged for confirmation. Abby glanced down at her hands, her rings, and the cigarette that had all but disintegrated into ash between her fingers. She nodded, cleared her throat, and said a quiet, “Yes.” 

Carol made a noncommittal sound but did not say anything. She continued to stare into her glass, a tinge of sadness pulling at the corners of her mouth. 

Abby shifted in her seat, smoothing out the napkin she’d placed on her left leg. She was still uncomfortable, still so very tired, still pulled taut from their conversation in the car. But the relief was also there. Relief that she no longer had to wonder whether Carol would find out about her. Relief to know that she already knew and that she was not running away, disgusted or disappointed. 

It was paler than she’d hoped it would be, that sense of release from telling Carol. She had expected something tumultuous. A life-changing event that would shake her to her very core. Sweeping romance or heart-wrenching sadness. Instead, there was this. She was still just herself. Carol was still just Carol. And they were still just sitting together, quietly surviving an unsteady world. 

Abby lifted her glass and sipped at the whiskey, holding the liquid on her tongue for a second to feel the bite of it. The waiter reappeared, carrying two plates of food. She swallowed down the drink, grimacing through the burn, and muttered a thanks. 

* * *

* * *

Carol lifted her fork and glanced over at Abby. 

Marion. Paris. Salons—all of it swirled through her mind in a slow current. 

She wondered what the woman looked like. How old she was. Where she was now. If she missed Abby. 

It was strange to imagine this whole other life Abby’d had all those years ago. It sounded like something out of a story—all the more so for being over. What had caused things to end between them? Why and how and when—such questions filled her to the brim—and, _what_. That was the one that really got her. 

What was it like? 

She dabbed her lips with her crumpled, torn napkin. What was it like? She couldn’t help but wonder. She couldn’t help but dwell on it—the thought of two women being… well. 

It was all rather overwhelming. She felt calmer now, of course. The meal was helping. The conversation even more so. Still, she tried not to think too concretely about it. What did she know, after all? She was no expert in religion. She’d never been much interested in doctrines or the church —though, of course, she’d gotten married in one. She knew there were always questions of morality buzzing about, but wasn’t that all a matter of perspective? Of traditions? 

She didn’t know. All she knew was bewilderment and curiosity and a little anxiety about the whole thing. She couldn’t imagine that Abby ever felt badly about herself or guilty for her experiences. Not having to do with this, anyway. Carol wasn’t quite sure she’d be able to say the same were she in Abby’s position. Of course, she’d never… That was entirely beyond the scope of possibility. She wasn’t _like that_. Carol looked down at the napkin draped over her leg. The edges around the corner she had torn were puckered into little papery spikes. They seemed to point to her. She placed a hand over the napkin, flattening it against her leg. 

It was dizzying to think about this afternoon as one event in a long line of others—an extension of conversations they’d had, explanations, promises, and declarations they’d exchanged before. Like that letter. Like everything that had happened was inescapably connected to it by some unbreakable thread of fate. 

What would have happened if she’d had the courage, the words to respond back then? To the letter? What would she have said? 

Carol looked up at Abby again, at her friend who was meticulously cutting her meal into small bites with the utmost concentration. She cleared her throat, summoning Abby’s attention, and said, “I’m… ah, I’m glad you told me.” 

Abby offered her a small smile in return.


	17. The Beauty and Absurdity of a Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think friendships are the result of certain needs that can be completely hidden from both people, sometimes hidden forever.”  
> ― Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt

_**June 1946** _

“Alright, okay. I give. I can’t—” Abby doubled over, propelled by the momentum of a desperate and ineffectual lunge. She stayed bent over, pressing against a stitch in her side with one hand and limply dangling her racket in the other. She panted around a few groaning laughs and sank to her knees. Behind her, the tennis ball hit the far wall with a heavy _thwack_ and rebounded. 

Across the net, Carol chuckled and walked over to Abby’s side of the court. She, too, was out of breath though far less than her friend. “I believe that means I win.” 

Abby groaned again. “I’m never playing you again. ‘Two out of three.’ S’a dirty trick.” 

Carol leaned down to offer Abby a hand. A sheen of sweat glazed their palms; their breath was labored; their cheeks flushed from the game and the sun. She pulled back, hoisting Abby to her feet. For the briefest of moments, they just stood there, hands clasped and grins wide. Then, a nearby car blasted its horn at an intersection, and reality snapped back into place. Carol dropped Abby’s hand, and shook her head in mock exasperation. 

It was a beautiful sunny day. A breeze played over the courts offering waves of respite that broke through the heavy heat. The courts themselves were dotted with other players—the sounds of rubber meeting nylon strings, feet hitting the hardcourt, and occasional huffs and shouts rang about the place. 

Carol and Abby had met, as they had done so many times before, to play a few matches and pass the afternoon outside. It was a fine Saturday. Harge was off playing golf with some of his business associates, and Carol felt freer than she had in weeks. Things with Harge had gotten worse than ever. A part of her stood back from it all with dumbfounded awe. Every time she thought they’d hit rock bottom they somehow managed to dig deeper to a whole new low. It was all tension and poison at home. Harge was insufferable. He sulked and simpered in turn—scolding her for her absence then begging her for attention. It was too much. 

And, poor Rindy. Dear, sweet Rindy. It was getting harder and harder to hide things from her. She had already walked into a number of their arguments. Each time, Carol and Harge would stagger into silence and hasten to make up some inane reason for their raised voices and pointed fingers. Carol wasn’t sure whether Rindy believed or understood any of it. They wanted so badly to shield her from all of their troubles, but it was naïve to think such a thing was even possible. More likely than not, Rindy knew well enough what was happening between them—even if she only grasped the barest outline of it, even if she couldn’t understand why. The thought made Carol’s heart ache, made her wonder whether she wasn’t a terrible mother after all. 

The only solace these days was Abby. It had taken time, of course, for them to return to their warm familiarity after The Talk that had started the year off. Abby had been shy for weeks after, not volunteering any outings—only barely agreeing to those Carol suggested. Still, Carol had persisted. She’d called and pushed and bothered Abby right out of her apartment and into diners and stables and the tennis courts. Somehow, the act of pushing was the tonic she’d needed to get her own head straight about the whole thing. It had provided her with the clarity of a desire. A desire for the missing pleasure that was her afternoons with Abby Gerhard. Quite simply, she missed Abby. She needed Abby. Lesbianism be damned. And, anyway, whatever did it matter? Their time together was about them, not Harge or Marion or anyone else. Really, when it came down to it, Carol thought it counted for very little. In fact, she ought not even think of it at all. 

It was clear, however, that it mattered much more than a little to Abby. Once Carol had succeeded in drawing Abby out from her hermitage, she noticed a surprising change had come over her friend. It wasn’t stark or dramatic, but it was there. Abby had always wielded a quick wit and a sharp tongue, but she’d grown quieter as an adult. She was still kind, still generous, but she was quieter. More pensive, introspective. Many of her actions—at least around Carol—had seemed guarded in some way. Held back. Now, she was startingly present. Carol saw it in the little things: a freedom to her laugh, a quickness to her step, a more trusting look in her eye. 

It had meant something to her to tell Carol. Carol knew that. She cherished it greatly. And she intended to let Abby know just how much. 

Carol kicked her feet out, letting the soles of her shoes scrape against the hardcourt’s surface. She swung her leg back, tapped her toes twice on the ground, and turned to face Abby. 

“So,” Carol said, “I’ve been thinking—” 

Abby chortled, “My God. Should I be worried?” 

“Oh, you twit. Shush.” 

Abby returned a smirk and shrugged, “I’m just saying, I’d like to prepare myself before you bowl me over with some demonstration of true genius.” She tilted her head, bringing up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, and squinted at Carol. “Any chance of that happening? So I can be ready. You know.” 

Carol shot her a look. “Well that depends. Will you let me finish?” 

Abby twisted the hand shielding her eyes into a lazy wave, inviting Carol to continue. 

Carol took a deep breath. _Here goes_. Two courts over, a little girl shrieked out peals of laughter. 

“So,” she said again, “I’ve decided to start a business. Or, well. I want to start one. A furniture store.” 

Abby made a small noise of interest and nodded a little. 

“And I want you to join me.” 

Abby stopped nodding. Carol waited a moment for the offer to sink in. She was sure it was a good idea. They both knew enough about the style of things. Really, it was just a matter of learning the business of it all. And, well. Didn’t they each know a dozen people who could advise them? Hell, Carol’s father alone— 

Carol’s mind screeched to a halt as Abby’s brow began to crease. She didn’t want to do it. That was it. She was going to say no. Or, worse, she hated the idea of it. Thought it was ridiculous and that Carol had no business pursuing such a ludicrous endeavor. 

Sheer self-preservation pulled her lips into a smile. “I mean,” she said, laying on all the charm she could muster, “I was _hoping_ that you would. That we could be _partners_ in it. You have such a great eye for these things—especially with the modern stuff. And, you know, we already spend so much time together, so I thought ‘Why not?’ And there really isn’t anyone I’d rather start a new project with.” Carol looked over Abby’s face—her thinking face, her trying to come up with the right words face. This was not going as well as she’d hoped. “I just—um. Of course, if you think it’s a terrible idea, we can just pretend I didn’t say anything, or I can—" 

“Okay.” 

Carol blinked at Abby. “I—What? Yes?” 

Abby nodded, her smirk returning, “Yes.” 

“You’re sure.” Carol stared at her warily, half-convinced Abby was playing one of her pranks. 

Abby laughed, reached out an arm, and pushed lightly on Carol’s shoulder, “Yes, Carol. I’m sure.” She shrugged, “I mean, why not? Should be fun.” 

_Oh, thank god_. Carol tilted her head up toward the sun, her eyes closed, and drank in the warm. Finally. It wasn’t just that the store would give her an escape. It was something new. Something of hers that _she_ could make. It wouldn’t be a distraction or just another facet of her claustrophobic life. It would be a creation borne of her own two hands. Devised and grown and managed by her own mind. Hers and Abby’s. 

When she’d gotten the idea a few weeks prior, Carol had been very nearly afraid of it. A furniture store. Such a little thing. Such a huge step. A leap. A fall off a precipice. For ten years she had done nothing but be a wife. Raise a child. Tend to a house that did not need tending. What did she know about… anything? 

But the more the thought sat in her mind, the more it grew and grew and demanded attention. Like a pearl grown of grit and salt, it came out iridescent and full of promise. For the store would not just be a store. It would be something of a new beginning. Something to prove to herself, to Harge, to anyone that she was someone doing _something_ with her life. 

The prospect terrified and delighted her. 

“Do you already have a space for it?” Abby was talking to her. Asking her things. Carol brought her attention back to the present, the beautiful warm sun, the faint smell of rubber and sweat. 

“Ah, no. No, I don’t.” A smile spread across her lips. She felt quite giddy—dizzy almost with the prospects that now suddenly felt so real, so palpable. A laugh rose out of her, “I don’t have anything for it.” 

Abby looked at her, smiling quizzically. She no doubt looked like a mad woman, laughing to herself. No matter. The day was suddenly so perfect, so wonderful. 

“Can I just ask, why now? Are you that bored, or…” Abby let the sentence drift off unfinished. 

Carol’s smile waned. “I just need… something in my life that’s mine, I think.” She looked over at Abby, crinkled her eyes, and chuckled. “That, and if I have to spend another month sitting around in that haunted house listening to Harge sigh and mutter to himself—I really will lose my mind.” 

Abby huffed a laugh. “Instead you can sit around a store and listen to me mutter and sigh to myself.” 

Carol hummed, “I’d rather hear you than him.” She shifted her racket, holding it more securely in hand, and motioned for them to head out toward the locker rooms. 

They started planning immediately. They drove together to a restaurant and spent two hours talking over every detail they could think of: Where would it be? When would they be open? Who did they know that could offer advice, that would eventually want to buy? What did they need to know that they did not know already? 

* * *

* * *

Harge Aird was a man of simple pleasures. He had never espoused grand expectations for his life. He never dreamed beyond the fresh paint of his picket fencing. As early as he could remember, he’d wanted to grow up, marry a beautiful girl, start a family, work hard. Make a name for himself—but not the sort of name that would cover marquees or headlines in the newspaper. A quiet name. A name his friends and his family would be proud to say. 

And he’d had it. Or, he’d thought he’d had it. There were small hiccups here and there. Carol was a mercurial woman. She could sink into such depressions, such fits of irritation, with next to no provocation. Still, he’d stayed, hadn’t he? He’d asked her what she was feeling, what she was thinking. He‘d tried his hardest to see to her every need and want. He _wanted_ this to work. 

And, sure, she’d always been a little distant. She was one of those who held the world at an arm’s length. She looked on nearly everything with suspicion, but what she loved most were quiet comforts, easy companionship. He loved that about her. And when they started going together, she leaned on him. When her eyes got that far-away look to them, she would hold his arm so tightly it almost hurt. He didn’t mind. For her, he’d go through hell. 

In the beginning, he’d suspected she only went out with him as a convenience. Something to do. Someone to amuse her. She so enjoyed intimate little outings only sparsely dotted with conversation. He made her laugh as they walked down park pathways or up the streets of the city. Still, he always figured she would leave him. Find someone more handsome, more interesting. But then, he’d asked her to marry him and she’d said yes. And he’d been over the moon. So proud, so relieved that she’d wanted him too. So sure that they would be happy together, that he would make her happy. 

And things were great. For a while. She’d seemed so invested in making the wedding perfect, kept pushing it back to iron out little details that, he’d assured her, didn’t really matter. But they mattered to her, so he waited. Happily. He’d thought they had all the time in the world. And when they’d bought their house, things seemed so settled. All the pieces were coming together. Everything he’d hoped for in life was laid out before him. He’d been so pleased. And, Carol? Well, she’d seemed fine. A little more distracted, perhaps. A little quieter. But, fine. So, they’d had Rindy, and that was just swell. Carol seemed to calm down throughout her pregnancy. She seemed happy, even. She had something to do—setting up their child’s bedroom, dreaming up all the future plans for him or her. Harge had hoped for a boy, but when he saw that little girl’s face, heard her little cry, he truly knew he was the luckiest man in the world. Little Rindy. Little Nerinda. He loved her more than life itself. And, judging from the look on Carol’s face in the hospital as she held their daughter, she felt the same. But, then, of course she did. Who wouldn’t? 

So, what had gone wrong? It was a question he asked himself at least once a day. What had happened to them? What had he done… or, not done that had pushed Carol away? Because, she wasn’t happy anymore. She was hardly even present. She spent all her time instead with Abby. Planning the furniture store. He’d been shocked when she’d announced her plans to him. Announced, not asked. Not discussed. Announced. And now, she was hardly home. She’d drift in at eight o’clock, tired beyond reason from doing god only knows what. 

And Abby. She’d been over a few times since—mostly while he was at work, but he’d come home every now and again to see her there. They camped out at the kitchen table, drinking coffee after coffee, and working. And _laughing_. Carol hadn’t laughed like that in… he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d heard her laugh like that. Jealousy gnawed at him. 

He didn’t mean it to. It was a ridiculous reaction anyhow. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want her to have friends. Though, he did admit that he preferred the wives of his colleagues over Abby. He’d much rather she spent time with _them_ instead. He could never quite grow as fond of Abby as she was. Perhaps it was the jokes—quick things always bordering on inappropriate. Perhaps it was the look of unease that crossed her eyes when he approached. Like she was wary of him. _Him_. When he’d been nothing but welcoming to her. 

Sometimes, Harge fancied that there was a tether tied between Carol and him. When one of them would move or act or speak, the other would answer in turn, pushing and pulling in an unending dance. He could not help but react to her. It was as if her very presence provoked him. When she smiled, he beamed. When she hummed, he sang. When she grew quiet, he got louder. When she got distant, he held on tighter and tighter. 

His perfect life had grown imperfect. His marriage was flailing. He knew that. He knew that things were going poorly for them, that they hadn’t really communicated in months. But if Harge was a man of simple pleasures, he was also a man of strong principles. He believed in them. And he was not going to go anywhere. 

* * *

Much to Carol’s delight, the store had soon begun to take shape. It took time, naturally, but such time seemed to fly on by as they worked. Both of them could feel it: the velocity, the purpose, the crystal-clear image of a little shop that might buy and sell furniture. It was electrifying—and not a little addicting.

Carol found in herself a certain drive and fervor for the long afternoons spent making phone calls, researching business practices, and consulting Abby on any manner of structural details. It was a startling feeling to be so active, so emboldened. She was not following anyone, not keeping pace with any script or tradition. She was _making_ something. _Doing_ something. 

Much as Carol had tried stepping into the role of wife and homemaker, she had always lacked the command of her own mother. Virginia Kent had been a force. She knew every inch of her home and kept it all running smoothly and perfectly without fail. Carol had never managed that. Of course, she’d never quite had the opportunity. Even before they’d moved in, the house was filled with Harge’s family’s footprint. The inherited furniture had been arranged by Jennifer Aird. The house’s management had been designed and maintained by Florence. Even the bills were out of her hands—Harge had put them all down under his name. 

She’d never complained. Why bother? The house was always clean, the bills always paid, the problems always solved three steps ahead of her. What could she say in protest? That she was unsatisfied by such perfection, such ease? Most women would have traded anything to have the leisure and comfort of her life. She knew that. And yet, the endless monotony of it, the complete inactivity of it had wilted her. Had made her sullen and uncertain. 

She had tried to take hold of some things. She would prepare meals, decorate the garden, furnish Rindy’s bedroom. Sometimes she would beg Florence off and do the wash—relishing the time and care of folding Rindy’s fresh clothing. She would hold up the cotton dresses and clean socks to her nose and breathe in deeply the scents of soap and heated fabric. It provided a little comfort—and on that, she got by for years and years. 

But now… Now was different. Independence, she had found, fit her like a glove. She enjoyed making decisions. Enjoyed, too, the productive panic that pulsed through her as she attempted to balance any number of responsibilities all at once. It was a sort of magic, their shop. Not even begun yet already changing them. 

And, indeed, it was changing them—not only as businesswomen but as friends. For while working on the store, Carol had found that her bond with Abby had begun to shift. She was less desperate for Abby’s attention. No longer depending upon Abby to release her, if only ever briefly, from her home life. Afternoons out with Abby became a different sort of pleasure. Before they were filled with relief. Blissful gasps of air before plunging down into the waters of her everyday life and drowning all over again. Now, she had something else to hold onto. Something else to make her feel like there was something worthwhile to life. With that shift, Carol had begun to appreciate Abby in a new way. She enjoyed spending time with her. Working, yes, but also talking and imaging new possibilities for their future endeavors. 

There was something to their mutual purpose. It charged their interactions, added a familiar sense of conspiratorial amusement to it all. Their work provided them with focus and arose in her a clarity with which she could see Abby fully for perhaps the first time in years. Her intelligence. Her wit. Her creativity. Her resourcefulness. Her unabashed joy for all the world had to offer her. All of it became so startlingly apparent. She had wanted Abby for the store because of Abby’s taste, but mostly she just hadn’t been able to imagine doing anything without her. They had become so entwined. Abby was so necessary to her, like air itself, that the thought of starting such a project without her seemed impossible and hideous. But with the work underway, she found herself more and more delighted, surprised, and grateful to realize that Abby was the perfect companion for such an endeavor. 

And, more, the perfect friend to join her on the adventure that lay before them. 

* * *

* * *

_**September 1946**_

“The previous tenants kept the place in good condition, as we mentioned. There is a stockroom in the back, and this is the storefront out here. We’ll get you the cash register in a few days. We put it away in storage for safe-keeping.” The realtor rested an arm on the counter of the empty building, leaning his weight against it lightly. He smiled at them, “Is there anything else I can do for you ladies before we dot all the i’s?” 

Carol glanced over at Abby, her anticipation growing by the second, “No, I don’t think there is. Thank you, Mr. Andrews.” The man smiled again, pushed himself away from the counter, and pulled a folded bundle of papers out of his suit jacket. He tipped the papers in a congenial salute and placed them on the counter. Carol stared at them—a little white rectangle on so much light blue. She blinked, looked up at the realtor, and offered him her most brilliant smile, “And please do give my regards to your boss. I’m sure Harge would love to have him over for dinner again.” 

“I’ll be sure to do that. You ladies have a nice day. And, good luck.” He looked at Carol and Abby in turn and smiled an especially bright smile at Rindy, who was walking along the far wall, running her hand over the white paneling. She took no notice of him as he left. 

Carol’s heart sped and leapt as the little bell hanging from the door rang out, signaling Mr. Andrews’s exit. Their very own bell. Their very own space. Their very own shop. She looked over, catching Abby’s eyes, “Well, how about that,” she said in a low voice brimming with delight. 

Abby’s smile echoed her own—pleased but restrained, as if she had to hold herself back from the edge of a hysterical, riotous sort of joy. “We have a space.” 

“That we do.” Carol took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and shook her head quickly. What wonders this week had wrought. It was almost too much to comprehend. She turned toward her daughter and ran her hands down the front of her pencil skirt. Well. That was enough of that. They had work to do. “Rindy, darling,” she called, “Come away from there. Why don’t you help Abby and me set up the phones?” 

They’d purchased two—lovely black Bakelite pieces so light they could be carried all the way around the stock room if need be. They would put one in the back on a little desk for their business affairs and one out front for customer service. It’d been Carol’s suggestion. They couldn’t very well abandon the counter to answer the phone, could they? What if only one of them were there? No, better to get two. Abby had smirked but agreed, of course. She seemed to enjoy indulging in Carol’s luxuries. 

As well she ought, for look how far they’d come. Carol had been the one to find this place, too. She’d seen the ad listed in the paper. A small shop space for rent in Elizabeth. It was perfect—with honey colored wood floors, picture windows that washed the room with clear morning light, and a pale blue countertop without a chip in sight. Carol had visited it all before, but her first visit was one of potential, not promise. Now, it was theirs. They’d signed the forms; they’d paid the deposits. It was all really happening. 

Rindy pushed herself off the wall and stumbled in a rushed, clumsy lope over to the counter. The front tip of her Mary Janes squealed in protest against the hardwood floors. Carol clicked her tongue and shot a look of soft scolding at her daughter. No need to make a mess already. They’d only just begun. 

They brought out the phones from the back and began to separate out their cords—they’d inexplicably managed to become tangled on the short ride over. Abby took point, patiently pulling the lines of plastic-coated wire and coiling them in neat little piles as she went. Rindy stood next to her, her head just barely peeking over the counter’s edge. Her eyes were glued to Abby’s progress. After a moment, she reached a curious hand over the counter and felt a line of coiled cord between her fingers. “Aunt Abby,” she said slowly, with drawn-out words. Beside her, Abby froze. “What’s this for?” 

Abby turned and looked at Carol. She looked so nervous, so pinned in place—as if she had been caught in the middle of a high crime. Carol very nearly laughed at her. Instead, she simply smiled. Offered encouragement, assurance. Abby released a breath, turned back to Rindy, and gave a stuttering reply—carefully explaining the way phonelines worked. 

She still looked unsettled by the new title. Uncomfortable. But, also pleased in a soft, awkward sort of way. Like she’d received a compliment to which she did not quite know how to respond. 

Carol practically hummed. Rindy liked her. Felt comfortable with her. Of course, it was nearly inevitable. Rindy had enjoyed spending time with them while they worked in the kitchen planning out the store, asking questions about it and their various tasks. Each time, Abby would stop whatever she was doing and answer her patiently and with great care. On one occasion, when Abby had stayed rather later than usual, Rindy had asked her for a story before bed. They walked her up to her room, tucked her away in her burrow of pillows and blankets, and Abby had sat at the foot of her bed to tell her a story. Carol remembered leaning in the doorway, feeling such a mixture of emotions—nostalgia, fond remembrance, pride, a wealth of amusement, and a tinge of sadness. Abby’s story had been masterful, of course. A retelling of the legend of King Arthur with the curious Merlin, courageous Arthur, beautiful Guinevere, and the dazzling sword Excalibur. She made the story quick but spared no effort for dramatics. She indulged Rindy’s interruptions to ask questions and commentate on the actions of the tale’s characters. Carol had pressed a hand to her lips, stifling the laughter that bubbled up every now and again—so beautiful was the moment, she feared even the smallest noise would shatter it. 

It was no surprise that Rindy had warmed to Abby, that she gravitated toward her. Like mother, like daughter, Carol supposed. Abby seemed bewildered by it, but that was just her way. She’d never quite understood how charming she was. And now, as ‘Aunt Abby’—Carol’s lips pulled into another involuntary smile—she was undoubtedly wondering what on earth would possess Rindy to say such a thing. Carol shook her head. Ridiculous. She was absolutely ridiculous. 

Watching Abby work, watching her teach Rindy where to plug the various telephone wires into the wall, how to test it by ringing her home phone—Carol found herself entirely at ease. Her chest felt light, unburdened by the pressing doubt and irritation of home. Her tense shoulders relaxed. Her breath held even. She wished that the afternoon could stretch onward into infinity, that they might never leave. They could be happy, engaged in the joyous mundanity of telephone preparation forever. 

Then again, couldn’t it go on? For a little while. Couldn’t she extend the day? Take Abby and Rindy out for dinner after all the work was done. She imagined it—sliding into a booth in some restaurant in Elizabeth with her daughter and her closest friend, laughing at one another’s jokes. Rindy trying to convince her that desert was most definitely a good idea. Abby inevitably taking her side, if only to poke fun at Carol… 

Yes, what a wonderful idea. What a wonderful evening it would be. 

Carol cleared her throat, just loudly enough to draw their attention. “How about we go get a bite to eat after we’re done here? All three of us? After all this work, I feel like we deserve a little treat, don’t you?” 

From her perch beside Abby, Rindy’s eyes grew wide. “Yes! Please, yes!” She swung around to look at Abby expectantly, bouncing on her heels. “Abby, you have to say yes,” she commanded. 

Abby gave her a guilty smile in return, “Oh, I would love that, really, but, uh,” She paused, ran a consoling hand down Rindy’s arm. “I actually have plans. Dinner with a…” She glanced up at Carol, “a friend.” 

Carol frowned. A friend? Who—? She studied Abby’s expression. A date. Abby had a date. Carol nodded her head slowly. Right. Well. 

The news shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. It shouldn’t have mattered more to her than a simple passing comment, perhaps a momentary pang at the loss of what would have been an excellent evening—but it did. 

In fact, the knowledge that Abby was going to go on a date provoked a sinking sort of feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her mind clouded with confusion and a spark of irritation. A date. A _date_. Tonight! What if they hadn’t finished setting up the shop in time? They still had boxes of office supplies to unload, fixtures to install, records to set up, calls to make. Would she have left them? Abandoned them for this mysterious dinner with some unknown woman? And, what then? Would such a thing happen again and again? Until Carol was left alone, tending a shop for a business she had thought was a partnership. 

Carol released a breath and forcibly reigned in her reeling mind. She needed to slow down. Abby wasn’t going anywhere. Of _course_ she had a date. She went on plenty of dates. This was perfectly normal—if not something she often did on the days she and Carol spent time together. 

Why was she meeting this woman today? When she’d known they would be getting the store and starting to prepare it. When she’d known Rindy would be joining them… 

Who was she? 

Carol envisioned some glamorous woman—a raven haired starlet of some sort. Someone audacious and brassy, who could keep pace with Abby’s quips. Someone who, like Abby, was decisive. She would dazzle her with her knowledge of some peculiar subject, bring forth laughs and long looks. They would find one another irresistible and– 

Carol’s mind turned sharply from the thought. _Too much_. 

Where would they dine? Carol wondered. Was this their first meeting? Or perhaps a regular event? Perhaps she was… going with Abby, or whatever the proper term was for women who… 

What if she was significant, different from the rest? 

Was Abby in love with her? 

No. No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. She needed to _slow down_ , to think _clearly_. Carol smiled stiffly at Abby as Rindy pouted at them. Abby murmured consolations and begged forgiveness. 

Carol picked up the second phone and its cords so carefully coiled. “I’m just going to go set this one up. No, no,” she said, waving off Abby as she tried to stand and help. “I’ve got it. You stay with Rindy. Continue your _mea culpa_ ’s.” She let out a perfectly light, perfectly effortless laugh, and made her way back to the stockroom. Once she’d passed through the doorway, her smile fell, and her frown returned. 

What was _wrong_ with her? She felt panicked and unsettled. Her heart was pounding, and her chest felt tight. Why did this bother her so? 

Of _course_ Abby would go on dates. Of _course_ she would meet people and perhaps settle down someday. Women had to love her. Of course. Who wouldn’t? She was a beautiful woman. Anyone could see it. She took care of herself; she respected herself. She was bold and intelligent and loyal and _funny_. Such things were attractive qualities. _Of course_. Abby deserved to have someone notice and appreciate those things about her. She deserved… whomever she wanted. Man or woman. 

Carol put the phone down on the desk, gritting her teeth as it chimed in protest against the impact. She pulled the chain switch on the desk lamp and sank into the worn wooden chair that accompanied the makeshift office space. 

She wanted Abby to be happy. So why did she feel so terrified by the prospect of it? Why did she want to scream at Abby for going to dinner? Why did she feel a violent impulse to cause some sort of impractical commotion that would delay them, that would keep the three of them there? Together. A stack of boxes toppled over, their contents unfortunately crushed. An overhead light broken, its exposed wiring far too dangerous to leave be. A window, perhaps, shattered, the shards of glass and vulnerable entryway demanding immediate attention and care. 

Carol placed the palms of her hands on the desk’s surface, pressing them against the wood. She felt like she was losing her mind. Toppling boxes? Shattering windows? What desperate, psychotic ideas. What childlike rage she had inside of her… 

Carol released a breath and, with it, a great swell of energy. She laid her head upon her hands, feeling her breath warm and wet the ridges of her knuckles, the sides of her cheeks. 

The problem, she knew, was that she was scared— _terrified_ —of losing Abby. It wasn’t really about any other person. How could it be? It was about _them_. What _they_ had. What Carol did not want to give up. She knew their friendship was a luxury of sorts. She must have known that someday Abby would want something more from someone else. That she’d drift away, pulled toward that someone by an absurd and undeniable desire. She must have known that. 

It was so easy to imagine that they existed in a capsule, an enclosed pocket of time. No one else around save for those few specials souls they invited in. Their privacy, their collusion—it all felt contained and wondrous and infinite. 

But it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. 

She wanted Abby to be happy, and she wanted Abby to stay. It seemed incredibly unlikely for both such wishes to come true. 

“Carol? Everything alright in there?” Abby’s voice rang through the air, eliciting a sharp gasp from Carol. 

She cleared her throat, sat up, and called out in a decidedly cheery tone, “Yes! Just hooking things up. I—” She summoned a laugh from deep within her belly, “Ah, I got distracted with some of the boxes back here. Just a moment.” 

She grabbed at the phone cords, pushing them behind the desk as she ducked beneath it. Finding the appropriate outlets and jacks, she made quick work of setting up the thing. 

“Oh, and when you’re done, could you bring me one of those boxes?” Abby called. “The short one. I’m going to go through some of the account binders and set up everything out here for the calls.” Carol could hear the faint chime of the other phone as it was picked up, moved, and replaced on the counter. “Do you know the central office code? I have a terrible mind for numbers.” 

Carol chuckled despite herself and picked herself up off the floor. Swallowing down her worry and her hopes, she took a breath and said, “Give me a minute. I’ll be right there.” 

* * *

* * *

They started arranging orders, reaching out to people they knew to gauge interest. Abby was a whiz at networking. Not for the first time—nor the last—Carol found herself in awe of Abby’s circle of acquaintances and her smooth way of conferring with them. 

She seemed to know everyone. Or, if she didn’t, she knew someone who knew someone who knew them. She was like a glittering spider sitting front and center in a web, smug beyond measure as her gossamer lines caught the attention of one person after another. She would lean back in her chair, sigh contently, and look over at Carol with a smile, singing, “We’ve got a live one.” 

Carol handled the organizing and business end of things for the most part. She had an eye for ordering ledgers and keeping the clockwork of the operation running as smoothly as possible. It was more than a little satisfying to know she was capable of such management. To hell with her house. She had a business. 

All around, they were feeling rather pleased with themselves and exhilarated by the process of it all. Carol found especial delight in meeting the eclectic line of people who dropped by the shop to sell a piece or two of furniture. It was like catching a glimpse into some section of Abby’s life that still remained unfamiliar to her. Older heiresses who had known her mother, artistic types who’d met her abroad, odd and end associates found at various functions and events about the city. The array of faces and styles was baffling. But, without fail, each visitor brought whatever they had to offer, and, steadily, their collection grew and grew. 

* * *

* * *

_**May 1947**_

It was late, and the world beyond the shop had grown dark. A light breeze pulled at the thin twigs of a nearby tree branch, causing it to _tap-tap-taptaptap_ against the windowpanes of the stockroom. 

Carol sat at her makeshift office in its worn, straight-back chair. They ought to get something better, something more comfortable, she thought for perhaps the third time that evening. She pulled her shoulder blades together, stretching out her back. If she’d known the extent of her paperwork responsibilities, she might have prepared better. But, really, a furniture store ought not have this sort of problem. She sighed, turned the page of the ledger that lay on the desk before her, and returned to her work, marking down the day’s transactions. She had a small stack of papers to go through. Receipts. Marking them down was soothing in a way. A simple task that required little else but concentration and penmanship. She wet her finger, picked up the topmost receipt of the stack, and laid it off to the side. On to the next. 

Behind her, she could hear Abby navigating the room now dotted with furniture. Her footsteps were soft, but the click of her heels was just audible above the lilt of jazz that swam and crackled out from the small radio perched atop a nearby bookshelf. Abby was double checking the inventory, jotting down new acquisitions into their records, comparing those records to the slips of paper attached to each piece. They’d learned early on that treating their books with meticulous care did them a great many favors. 

As Abby walked about the room, she moved and turned in time to the music, humming absently improvisational notes to accompany the instruments. The overhead light poured down upon them, interrupted only by the warm glow of Carol’s desk lamp. Shadows gathered and stretched around the furniture. It was a quiet night despite the twigs tapping and jazz lilting. They had had a busy day—a large shipment of new pieces and several excellent sales. It had been a balancing act—their most challenging yet—of directing the servicemen who’d dropped off the new pieces and tending to the customers milling about the shop. And then they’d had to switch out several pieces from the floor to the stock room. Those that had been sold were moved to a section of the back to await pickup. The newly listed pieces needed tags, needed to be placed somewhere within the front room that would look most attractive. It felt like working on a puzzle that moved and shifted underneath your hands each time you locked even one piece into place. She loved it more than words could describe. 

It seemed to Carol that her whole life had settled into something so perfectly different and yet so incredibly suited to her. At home, Harge has finally calmed. He’d grown used to her new schedule. Relieved by the regularity of it now that they had set hours of operation. He seemed proud even. Proud of her work and her accomplishment. He praised her for the success of the shop, acting all the while as if he’d been in favor it of from the beginning. Still, things were easier at home, and that made all the difference. 

Rindy came by the shop every now and again. She seemed unendingly fascinated with the ever-shifting puzzle, the way the furniture was moved about. She wound around the aisles of wood and metal like she was navigating a labyrinth, delighting in the moments when Abby would spy her scampering about and catch her up with a soft, playful roar. She liked, too, the self-importance of it. The few times they’d gone out to a restaurant for lunch, Rindy had hastened to inform the waiters that _her_ mother owned a furniture store and that it was perfectly lovely. Carol would warm with pride and joke that Rindy was the best free advertising money could buy. 

Carol dropped her pen onto the desk, smoothing the creased corner of the ledger’s page with her thumb absently. Her other hand had cramped. It twinged in sharp, aching pulses. She hissed quietly through her teeth. Splaying her fingers as wide as they could go, Carol leaned back in her chair and turned to catch sight of Abby. 

The other woman had come around the edge of a great hulking wardrobe made of cherry wood. It was an antique—the woman who had sold it to them had decided to move into a smaller apartment and could no longer find room for it. They’d been more than happy to take it; it was a beautiful piece. Three panels wide with a mirror inlay on the middle door. Either wing opened to a large open space for hanging clothing while the center panel held smaller drawers and cubbies. Beyond its size, the piece was simple in design—with just a single line carved into the wood that ran along the borders of each panel. All in all, it had been an excellent find. 

Abby paused beside it, reaching up a hand to catch hold of the tag’s string near the top of the wardrobe. Her eyes drifted over the front panels as she reached, until—she stopped, catching sight of herself in the mirror, and laughed. 

“My god. Will you look at this? I’ve come undone.” She pulled her hand back, touching instead her hair which had all but fallen out of its bun. Fly-aways framed her face, and several pins simply dangled haphazardly from stray locks. 

She placed her clipboard with the inventory records onto a carved chest to her left and proceeded to unravel the loosened knot. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth it out hastily. Carol suppressed a smile. Abby had always resented the time it took to properly do one’s hair. More often than not she just left it loose or else pinned it in a simple bun at the base of her neck. 

Carol watched as Abby gathered her hair in her hands, twisting it and pulling it to the side. She placed pins between her lips and turned her head to get a better angle in the mirror. 

As she turned, lights and shadows traveled along her face—her cheekbones, the line of her jaw, the tendons of her neck stood bright under the overhead beams. Shadows caught under her chin, her brow, the side of her nose, pooled beneath the lower ridge of her lips. 

Quite suddenly, Carol found that she could not breathe. She was transfixed, eyes glued to the unexpected beauty of Abby Gerhard. 

Her throat was a desert. Her pulse was a ticking bomb. She’d noticed it before, of course. That Abby was an attractive woman. She’d have been a fool not to. She’d thought it in passing. As a light and pleasant thing. This was different. It was not a distant notion, a distant beauty. This was a fierce and personal thing. A startling thought. A terrifying realization. 

Her eyes did not see Abby; they consumed her. She was not still. She was paralyzed. Stunned. Pinned. 

She did not know whether to feel joy at it or fear. A mixture of both, perhaps. She was confused and yet everything was so clear. So clear she thought it might burn her up from the inside. 

Abby took her hair in her hands and wound it up into a passable bun. She held it with one hand, pinning it with the other. Carol watched as her hands curled and grasped, watched as her breathing expanded her ribs and lifted her chest in swells. 

“I think it’s a lost cause,” Abby said, dropping her hands and inspecting her work. She shrugged. “At least it’s dark out and I don’t plan on seeing anyone who’ll give a damn.” 

“You look wonderful.” The words left her mouth in a low murmur before her mind could realize she’d said them. Panic raced down her spine. Her face grew warm. She felt mortified. 

What the _hell_ was happening? 

Abby glanced at her sardonically but turned back to look at herself once more, frowning slightly. Her hand lifted up absently; her fingers grazed the side of her neck and lingered there for a moment. 

Carol wondered what it would like to kiss Abby. What would it feel like to put her lips just there, in the crook of her neck, right near where her fingertips touched? The thought was horrifying, intoxicating, wonderful. Her skin felt cold and hot and electric. Was this what Abby felt for other women? Was this the desire that rose in her? To touch, to kiss, to look until her eyes were filled with the sight of them? Carol felt a profound and sudden urge to stand, rush to Abby, cover her with hands and teeth and lips—every inch with exacting precision. Her ears filled with the dull roar of her own blood. Thoughts and images raced through her in a violent flood. A riptide sweeping her away. 

She sucked in a sharp breath, pushing her still-aching hand against the desk as if the desk could pull her back, anchor her to reality. Reality, where she was Carol Aird. A normal married woman who did not have such thoughts about her friend. 

Her hand caught the edge of the ledger. The ledger caught the stack of receipts, and, tipping, the whole lot fell to the floor in a flurry of paper. 

“Shit,” she hissed. 

Abby turned back toward her and looked over the mess with a worried expression, “Are you alright?” 

“Fine. Great. Just… being foolish…. tired,” Carol mumbled. She slipped off the chair and kneeled on the floor, reaching for the scattered receipts and righting the fallen ledger. Several pages had creased upon impact. 

Her mind reeled. She was acting like an idiot. A foolish, childish idiot. She needed to pull herself together. She was sick—a cold or flu or something. And tired, too. It had turned her mind momentarily. Brought about an unexpected evening with truly bizarre effects. She wasn’t like this. Not really. She didn’t have these feelings. She was _not_ attracted to Abby. 

A hand entered her line of vision, plucking a receipt from the floor in front of her. 

“Here. Let me help.” 

Abby was sitting beside her on the floor. Abby, with a warm smile. Abby, who was so close. Abby, who had a loose lock of hair falling alongside her face already. 

“Oh, I, um.” She offered a smile. It was too bright. A ridiculous thing. She swallowed, bit the inside of her cheek hard, and tried again. “Thank you. I… don’t know what’s come over me.” Her eyes flicked up, catching sight of Abby. 

Abby, who looked at her with such soft eyes. Carol’s neck grew warm again. 

“So. That wardrobe. Nice.” Blather. Complete idiocy. Carol caught sight of Abby’s look of confusion and forced her eyes down to the floor once more. She needed to stop talking. 

“Yes. It is nice.” Abby answered in a measured tone—as if she were trying to decide whether she ought to take Carol to the hospital. She cleared her throat, seeming to decide against any rash action. “You know, it is getting rather late. We should probably call it a night.” She tipped her head to the side, another lock fell loose, “Well, after we clean this up, I mean.” 

They worked in silence for a few moments. Carol moved, but her focus was not on locating scraps of paper. Her focus was entirely bound to Abby. She looked at her rings, at her painted red nails on fingers that swept over the floor. The earrings—beautiful knots of gold—hanging on her ears, catching light. The hanging locks of hair that had slipped from her pins. The way the shorter hairs on the back of her neck grew upward, reaching toward the rest. Carol found that she was no longer moving. She just watched as Abby worked, feeling profoundly dizzy. 

She was just tired. That was it. Nothing more. Just… tired and ready to head home. 

But, like a weed, an idea took root in the back of her mind and slowly, quietly began to grow. The idea that, perhaps, she was not tired. That she was wide awake. That she knew precisely what was happening and what was happening was overwhelmingly real. 

* * *

They said their goodbyes for the night quickly, Abby casting a few worried glances her way as she pulled open her car door and prepared to drive home. At least it was a short drive, she’d said. Carol wondered what Abby would have done were it longer. Driven her home, perhaps. Carol shivered at the thought of it. God only knows how she’d survive that. 

As it was, she found herself relieved to be alone. The drive was indeed short, but it took her across open fields of farmland on long roads that seemed to stretch out forever. Riding through such vast, star-swept space made her feel blissfully small. Made her problems grow miniscule to match. The sky glittered. Air rippled the grass and grain around her. Her car’s engine hummed, its headlights reaching out ahead of her. 

She breathed. 

What an odd evening. What a ferocious, fleeting madness. 

She was sure that by tomorrow, all that had changed would resume its familiar rhythms. She would wake in her bed lying beside her husband. She would get up, go to the kitchen. Make a coffee. Greet her daughter, whispering salutations into her beautiful hair. She would look about her and recognize her surroundings because she would be back where she belonged. In her life—mediocre and at times utterly miserable, but _familiar_. And normal. And safe.


	18. Bearing Flowers Through Her Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How was it possible to be afraid and in love... The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.” – The Price of Salt

_**May 1947** : The Next Morning_

It was the birds that stirred her out of her sleep. Their songs carried through the windows and fluttered against her eyelids. She blinked, made a small noise of waking, and began to shift beneath the covers. 

It was bright out already. The morning sun peeked through the cream curtains of Carol’s bedroom. Beside her, the bed’s sheets crumpled together, drawn down where Harge had pushed them aside as he’d gotten up. He’d be at work already, or on the way. Carol pointed her toes and stretched her body as far as she could, sighing happily as the movement awoke her muscles. Then, folding back the sheets on her side of the bed, she stood, smoothed the fabric back into place behind her, and started for the downstairs. 

The birdsong was even louder on the first floor. Sun streamed through the kitchen windows and warmed the table below. Carol peered out at the garden behind the house. Flowers were beginning to grow—green little things, still yet fragile. One storm and they’d be torn to pieces. Still, it was nice to see. They’d come so late this year. 

She turned away from the window and started preparing coffee. Harge sometimes made a pot before he left, but he’d been leaving earlier of late. There were whole days where they hardly saw one another—Carol coming home well after dark and Harge leaving well before she awoke. No matter. Things would settle as the store— 

Thoughts of the night before flooded Carol’s mind. 

Staying late. The wardrobe. Abby. 

_Abby._

It was such a curious, vague thing to think of here in the morning light, in the safety of her kitchen. Last night felt worlds away—some dream plucked out of a story book. But it was real. She could feel that it was real. 

For even this morning, even as far away as Abby was and as normal as Carol’s surroundings were, Carol found her mind running back to her. The lights dancing across her shoulders, her face, her neck. The sweet concern of her look. The intensity and suddenness of Carol’s desire. The terror of it. The surprise. 

It was so confusing. The idea frightened her. How could she have these feelings? How could she have carried them around inside her body without knowing? How could they have sprung up on her, like a sudden illness or a surprise visit from a stranger. And what could she do about it? Was she meant to just wallow—one more malaise to add to her long list? She couldn’t will away the feelings, that was becoming abundantly clear. And, to answer them? She was married, a mother. She was not free to follow her whims… And, weren’t they whims? Wasn’t it possible that these feelings were just gossamer, immaterial suggestions drifting through her mind for only a short while? Wasn’t it possible that she might wake up one morning and no longer feel for Abby in that way? 

But, Carol admitted to herself as she pulled a ceramic mug down from the cabinet and tipped the carafe over its mouth, she had woken, hadn’t she? She had thought that perhaps it had been a thing of stress and exhaustion. A fantastical desire conjured up by her overworked brain. No such luck. 

Some small part of Carol recognized a familiarity to the desire. A comfort in it. Like it was sized perfectly to her form. Had she always had those feelings for Abby? She didn’t think so. She’d certainly never noticed them before. She cared for her, of course. Loved her even. But as a friend. It had been Abby that had had those feelings before. So, why now? What had changed? Carol wished there was some marking on memory, a flag, perhaps, to tell her precisely where and when her feelings had developed. Had they been there all along, humming quietly beneath her every conscious thought? The question summoned a ribbon of daydreams—half-formed wispy things—of what might have been between them, how things could have gone differently. She supposed it made a kind of poetic sense, loving Abby… 

But, was that what it was? Love? The thought was daunting. She shied away from it. 

Love was too big a thing, too grand a word. She couldn’t grab hold of it or gain purchase. She’d thought she loved Harge once—or, loved things about him anyway—but what she had thought was love then was not what she was feeling now. Now was different. It had a different sort of potency to it. A ferocious vibrancy. A piercing intensity. It was not warm fondness. It was misery and agitation. How could that be love? 

Carol scowled into her coffee, tightening her grip on the handle. If it was, she didn’t want it. She wanted things to return to how they had been with Abby. Uncomplicated and perfect. She hadn’t asked for this. 

Carol shook her head, released a frustrated sigh, and dropped her hand heavily to the counter. The ceramic mug collided against the black laminate surface with a sharp rap, the force snapping the mug’s handle off its base and shattering it into several large pieces. 

Swearing, Carol winced at the sear of coffee against her hands and arms. She reached for a towel and began to pat gingerly at her reddened skin. She was always making a mess of things, wasn’t she? There was coffee all over the counter, pouring in thin streams over the side and onto floor. 

A dull throb drew Carol’s attention to her right hand. On her palm, just below her thumb, was a small but deep cut. A shard of the mug had punctured her skin. She stared at it, watching as a great bead of red welled up from the wound. It glinted, catching rays of sunlight from the kitchen window. 

Carol couldn’t look away from it, fancying that she might fall into that red, sun-dappled globe. In a strange way, the wound soothed her frustration. Her breathing evened, guided by the steadying pulses of her aching hand. 

* * *

_**Fall** _

Over the months that followed, Carol tried her hardest to avoid thinking about her feelings for Abby. She had decided a stiff upper lip and a steady hand was the way to go. No fuss, no change. They were good friends. They were close. That was all. 

She repeated the thought as many as five times a day. Sometimes, before bed, she added a sixth for good measure. 

In the meantime, their business continued to grow, pressing on with even tides of transactions that moved pieces in and out of their stockroom. They kept themselves busy enough, and Carol was more than happy to sink into the currents of work. Despite her best efforts, she could not help but notice how, these days, the shop felt more intimate, the spaces quieter, the partnership more significant. Carol found herself relishing any opportunity to confer with Abby over the most mundane details of their store. She would linger beside her, reciting information and updates she knew Abby was entirely capable of checking herself. She drew what little comfort she could from small interactions—morsels of intimacy—gathered in their day to day exchanges. A moment where they stood close to one another. A prolonged look. A kind comment. But nothing obvious. Nothing that would signal her interest. 

Within the privacy of her mind, however, Carol was quite bold. She could not help herself. Whenever they found a break—a slow day, an early finish to the paperwork tasks, an unexpected delay that left them with idle hands—Carol’s eyes would inevitably drift over until they were full of Abby. There, she would wonder at the other woman, thinking out a list of things she thought she must love about her. 

Her ringed fingers. Her crisp outfits. Her sardonic smile. The crackle of energy that played about her lips as she prepared a volley of witty retorts. Her eyes. Her hands… 

The list went on as the day is long. 

After a while, such musings stopped bothering her. She grew used to them. Private, soft little things that accompanied her throughout the day. She grew, too, more comfortable with the unavoidable fact of her attraction to Abby. It was a foregone conclusion, she thought. But it was also an incidental thing. Nothing would become of it, and, eventually—hopefully—it would disappear completely. 

Months passed this way. One after another until, soon enough, a year had gone by. A year full of quiet longing and secret intimacy. 

* * *

* * *

**_April 1948_ **

“It’s not as if they started on our side. I don’t know why anyone is surprised. You know, the way they present Stalin in the papers, you’d think the man was some kind of demon. But I read he had a heart attack a few years ago. Can’t be that much of a threat anymore. And, anyway, it’s the ideology’s the problem,” Abby took a bite of her meal and tilted her head from side to side, mulling over the issue. She swallowed hard, and started off again “And _now_ , this whole Marshall Plan… It’s exhausting. It’s like they’re all dancing around the issue with no follow-through. Not that I want another war.” She raised a hand to stem a flow of accusations Carol had not yet made, “God. Of course not. But it feels we’re all just waiting for something terrible to happen. It’s dreadful.” 

Abby took a breath and glanced about the diner. They had decided to go out after closing the shop that evening. They had some remaining work to do, but it could wait until morning or at least until after they had finished their meal. It was a small place—with white and red striped vinyl booths that ran along two walls of the diner. A few tables dotted a third wall on either side of the front entrance. Shining silver stools ringed the wide semi-circular counter where waitresses brewed pots of coffee and wrote out receipts in a rushed script. The whole of the place smelled of grease, vanilla, and black coffee. It was not an unpleasant smell, though it gave one the disorienting impression of time turned on its head. As if the hands of the white-faced clock hanging on the wall above the counter would forever suspend them at noon. Abby took another bite. “Though, I will say, I think the fuss makes sense. The things they’re saying, you know. About communism. I read the most _scathing_ editorial the other day that—” 

Carol cut across her, shifting in her seat. “It’s all rather concerning, don’t you think? The things people are saying… I’ve read really horrifying things. The stuff they put in the papers these days is criminal.” She shook her head and dipped her spoon into her bowl of soup. 

Abby shrugged, unbothered, “It’s propaganda. It happens every year for a different cause. At least this one seems—” 

“Could we talk about something else?” Abby looked at Carol, her eyebrows raised. A penitent expression crossed Carol’s face. She laid her hand on the table in a pacifying gesture. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just…” Her words drifted away from her. She looked so uncomfortable. She didn’t care to talk politics much. 

Abby nodded hastily. She really ought to remember such things. “Of course. Yeah. Of course. I’m sorry.” She let out a breathy, hesitant laugh, “I do tend to go on, don’t I?” 

Carol smiled at her, and they settled into an easy silence. Abby took a bite of her dinner roll. For all the oddness of the place, at least they served decent bread. 

A thought occurred to her. A morsel of information that might coax Carol into conversation. She quirked her lips, leaned forward a few inches to add an air of confidence to her delivery, and spoke in a low voice, “Did you hear that Abby Rockefeller died? Just last week. I read that she’s donated several pieces to the Museum of Modern Art. At least one Van Gogh, I hear. We should go to the show, whenever it opens.” 

Carol frowned. “It seems distasteful to plan an outing inspired by someone’s death.” Despite her frown, Abby could spy a tinge of amusement coloring her disapproval. 

“Why?” Abby leaned back, adopting her usual bravado as she tore off another piece of bread to eat, “She liked art. I like art. It’s a celebration. And, besides she could be my namesake. You don’t know. I certainly wouldn’t put it past my mother to name me after a _Rockefeller_.” 

Carol laughed into her napkin as she dabbed her lips. When she looked back up, it was with a curious sort of expression. Her eyebrows creased slightly; her mouth parted only a fraction. The most unbearably tender look filled her eyes. She started to move, lifting a hand—but hesitated, pausing with her hand floating only a few inches off the tabletop, before decidedly once again moving to reach across the booth. Her hand drew close to Abby’s face, but Abby did not back away. She did not move. She did not breathe. She couldn’t have if she had wanted to. Carol’s fingers, so warm, brushed lightly against Abby’s cheek, close to her mouth. 

“There was a crumb,” Carol murmured. 

Abby met her eyes. Carol withdrew, leaning back and slowly lowering her arm. When she had fully retreated, she looked down at her bowl, her spoon, her hands. A blush grew within her cheeks. 

Abby exhaled, flustered. Scattered bits of memory rose to the surface of her mind: laying in the grass, the smell of spring—that green and wet and earthen smell, Carol reaching out a hand to brush debris from her cheek, indents of plant matter crisscrossing her face, _clovers_. Carol’s cupped hands. The fast fluttering of her childhood heart. 

“I—uh. Thanks,” she said, stumbling over the words. Another breathy laugh whispered its way out of her lips. She cleared her throat, shifted, adjusted her napkin across her lap. 

Quiet lay thick about them then, insulating their booth as if in a cloud of warmth. Neither of them spoke, and through their silence they seemed to settle into a comfortable recognition of the pleasure Carol’s gesture had provoked in both of them. A gesture so like and unlike another that had come before. 

Abby thought of it, her mind dwelling on the number of strange intimacies that had dotted their friendship of late. She’d noticed, of course. She had developed a particular awareness in her adult years for the attention of women. She had learned the language of keen looks, of personal space, of the seemingly innocent comments that might cue one’s interest. 

It unnerved her to think of Carol’s attention—delighted her, too. She knew that some part of her would always want Carol, would always love her. That was the privilege of a first love, wasn’t it? An everlasting if somewhat faded adoration. It was the questions that such attention brought about that gave her pause. What did it mean? Why now? What would become of them? She had been reading Carol’s attention for months now, and nothing had come of it. No grand declarations or definitive moves. Just small breadcrumbs, inviting Abby to follow along. It was what she might find at the end of it all that scared her. Deceptive sweetness or…. home? She couldn’t decide which was the better option. 

* * *

_**December 1948** _

“Why do you always have to be so dramatic? You fly off the handle at anyone who dares to—" 

“Oh? You’re accusing _me_ of being dramatic? Carol, you are the single most temperamental woman I have _ever_ met!” 

They were standing behind the counter in their quiet little shop that December evening. It was about six o’clock, just after the sign had been turned round and the door locked. Abby had had only a moment’s breath after hearing the shop bell ring before Carol had turned and begun her assault. 

It was understandable, she supposed. They’d had a trying day. Abby had gotten into an argument with a customer—a patronizing, awful little man—and had, perhaps, cost them his business. 

Carol reared once more, “I—how can you—” She closed her hands into fists and let loose a frustrated groan, “You’re impossible, you know that? You’re going to ruin yet another order because you didn’t like how the customer _talked to you_.” 

Abby shot her a look full of venom, “I have every right to get mad at some prick that—” 

“He just asked whether you were _married_ , and you practically bit his head off.” Carol’s voice was scathing, dry and serrated. 

“That’s not all he said, you know that,” Abby laughed ruefully, turning away from Carol. She needed some air. She tossed the stack of order forms still clutched in her hand onto the counter. 

“Yes. Well. You didn’t make things any better by snapping at him. I mean, Abby, it’s not _safe_ for you to—” 

Abby stopped. _Safe_. What the _hell_ did she know about living _safe_? She turned back toward Carol, taking three quick steps until she was inches away from her—her temper grown thin and cold and brittle. 

“You think I don’t know how this all works?” She said quietly, evenly, “ _I_ live this life. I understand _perfectly_.” 

She waited, expecting a retort or an apology or _something_ , but Carol did not speak. She wasn’t even looking her in the eyes, she was— 

Staring at her lips. Abby swallowed, suddenly aware of her heart pounding in her ears, of the heat rising in her cheeks, of the way the air between their bodies had grown warm and electric. In front of her, Carol repressed a shiver. 

* * *

* * *

_**July 1949** _

It had seemed like a good idea in the beginning—sharing a suite. God knows they’d done it many times over. As kids, as women, even. It wasn’t as if it was an issue of space. They had individual beds—placed at very near opposite ends of the room. It wasn’t that the idea was unappealing. They’d agreed it was the more economical option, and, anyway, it was safer, wasn’t it? 

No, it was the intimacy of it. The surprising realization—how could it be a surprise?—that after the day had drawn to a close—the deals done, the forms signed—they would wind up together in the room. Alone. 

Carol was sure the idea had been hers. The trip had been planned a while back, so the details were blurry. They’d gone to Connecticut to meet a man about his collection of antique pieces. Everything was set to run like clockwork—they’d picked out the hotel, a place close enough to the highway but in town so as to be quieter. They’d agreed on which route to take, where they ought to stop along the way. They’d packed, driven, presented their offers. Now, all that was left was to sleep on their victory and head home in the morning. 

Carol followed Abby into the room, laying her case onto the bed furthest from the door. She lingered by it, feeling suddenly unsure about everything. She felt any movement—any at all—would bring about disaster. It was a fragile space. Everything was a fine balance of practiced ease and light fondness. 

Abby fiddled with a piece of paper—a telegram delivered to her by the hotel lobby clerk on their way up—and tossed her bags down on her own bed, jarring Carol from her thoughts. She sighed loudly and walked over to the phone in the room. Removing her earring from her left ear, she rested the Bakelite receiver in the crook of her neck and looked over at Carol. “I’ve got to call my mother. She has some sort of emergency question she needs to ask me.” Abby rolled her eyes but began swinging her fingers around the dial. 

Carol nodded and sat on her bed. Mrs. Gerhard had been reaching out more often of late, calling the shop and asking to speak to Abby idly while they were in the middle of a busy workday. It irritated Abby to no end, but Carol thought it was rather nice. In a way. After all they’d been through, it was good to know that Abby’s mother wanted to remain in touch. 

She’d been surprised to hear that Carol and Abby had reacquainted, of course. Her surprise had quickly turned to delight when Abby’d made a point of mentioning how Carol’s husband had been the one to encourage their reconnection. After that, every call ended with a “Do tell Carol I said hello. I hope she and her family are doing well.” 

Carol turned away from Abby and took in the room around her. The wallpaper in the suite was striped—two sickly shades of green. Carol couldn’t imagine how anyone might look at such colors and think they were relaxing or appealing in the slightest. The design clashed awfully against the white ceiling, which caught the yellow of the lamp lights in broad circles. Even the pictures dotting the wall here and there—generic prints of landscape paintings encased in simple wooden frames—seemed ill-suited against the stripes. It was all rather unfortunate. And to think, this was their suite. 

Carol rose from the bed and walked over to the other side of the hotel suite where there was a small sitting area. Two winged armchairs and a loveseat framed a squat, polished coffee table. To the left was a drinks cart—several decanters filled with amber and clear liquid sat nestled together on the top shelf. Below, a number of glasses. Carol hurried toward it. 

As she fixed herself a drink—brandy, filled just a few inches high—she caught little pieces of Abby’s conversation. “No, mother, I’m fine. I—You said that already. Yes. I do listen, you know. Alright.” 

Carol chuckled into her drink and settled on the loveseat. She curled her legs up under her, wrapping her fingers around the glass in her hands. Margaret liked to cap off most of her conversations with a short quiz and a long lecture for Abby. 

“Alright, yes. Yes, I will. You too. Okay. I love you, too. Bye now.” Carol looked up to see Abby drop the receiver into its cradle. A quiet chime hung in the air. “Oh my _god_ ,” Abby said, turning back toward Carol. 

Carol smirked. “Nightcap for your wounds?” 

Abby’s eyes widened, “ _Please_.” She walked over to the drinks cart and poured herself a glass. With a loud sigh, she sank into one of the armchairs. “That woman is going to be the death of me.” 

Carol smiled but didn’t reply. She wanted to relax into the space, to welcome the warmth of the brandy, the ease of the drink. She wanted to sink back into the cushions of the loveseat, to sigh, and to while away the evening laughing carelessly alongside Abby. 

She wanted that. So very much. 

But in order to feel that ease, to let go, she would need to be comfortable. And Carol was anything but comfortable. Instead, her mind trembled about her, overanalyzing her every sound and movement. It darted back and forth between her own body and Abby’s, searching for evidence of some secret communication. Was suggesting a drink too forward? They were friends. She shouldn’t think so. But, still… If only she _knew_ what Abby was thinking at any given moment, then she would be sure. 

Abby was sitting with her eyes closed, her head leaning back on the chair, her glass held limply in her hand. She looked relaxed. And tired. 

A part of Carol wished that they had gotten separate rooms after all. She wanted to run out of the space, spend the evening in blissful solitude. Away from the terrifying possibilities and temptations that occupied her mind. For, were they not sharing a room? Wasn’t it significant? Or, maybe that wasn’t right. Maybe she was overthinking it. 

Carol sipped her drink, pressing a thin layer of brandy on her tongue to the roof of her mouth. It was all enough to give her a headache. She wished fervently for the evening to pass by quickly. 

Abby sighed across from her and took one final drink from her glass. Carol tried not to stare as she stood, stretched, and headed back over to her suitcase. “We should get some sleep,” Abby said in a soft voice. 

Carol looked back at her drink, the little of it that was left. She was right, of course. They had the drive home tomorrow morning and then a few meetings in the afternoon. With a sigh of her own, Carol uncurled her legs and got up. 

The door to the bathroom stood ajar. From her place by the loveseat, Carol could see a sliver of the room. In the mirror was Abby, combing her hair in a rushed, impatient way. Wetting her toothbrush and applying toothpaste to it. 

They were such simple movements—mundane, everyday things, but they entranced her. Abby disappeared from sight for a second, moving further back into the bathroom. When she reappeared, it was with a flash of skin, her back bare as she pulled a nightshirt over her head. 

Carol looked away, a flush creeping over her cheeks, and hurried to her own suitcase. 

By the time she had dressed in her own pajamas and begun to brush her own hair, Abby had returned. She carried with her a bottle of lotion, which she applied in slow even circles to her skin—her hands, her arms, her neck. 

Once again, Carol found herself startled by the practice. Such intimate actions. Things one would only see before bed. There was such care to it, such patience and attention. And an edge of domesticity that she struggled to connect with Abby. As she had felt the first time she’d seen Abby’s apartment, Carol was struck by the sight of Abby’s private life. This glimpse of Abby’s evening rituals daunted her, made her feel shy and curious and somewhat embarrassed to be present. She breathed out her nerves by the bathroom sink while brushing her teeth, locking eyes with herself and dreading—and hoping—for the moment to end so that she get back out there and witness even more. 

This was the intimate time of the evening. All habits laid bare. Carol absorbed every detail with quick stolen looks and rapt attention. Caught the murmured “good night, Carol” with its low tones humming still in her two hands as she tucked away her night things and pulled the pillow out from beneath the comforter. 

She noticed the way Abby neatly folded down the sheets of the bed before slipping into them—yet another of her careful habits that belied the rash verve of her personality. She noticed, too, the way she curled a bundle of fabric in one hand and pulled it just under her mouth. Such a strangely defensive look for a woman Carol considered to be bravery incarnate. 

Carol turned off her light, shrouding the room in dark, and sank beneath the sheets of her bed. She lay there awake, her eyes open and seeing nothing. Her other senses took over. She listened to the sounds of Abby’s breathing, the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. The muffled sounds of cars in the distance. The beating of her own heart. The sheets that lay over her body slowly warmed to her touch. She slipped a hand under her pillow beneath her head, greeting the bite of the cold fabric against her skin and turned over onto her side. She faced Abby—not that she could see her clearly. Her eyes were adjusting to the lack of light, but she could only make out the barest outline of her. Still, her eyes looked and sought and stared at the shape of Abby. 

* * *

* * *

**_July 1950_ **

Time passed, as it is wont to do. Across the many months of long looks and instant tensions, Carol and Abby settled into an unspoken though firmly felt recognition that neither of them was willing to make a move. 

Things were so set in their lives. Carol’s marriage was perhaps strained beyond belief. Harge had become a something of a stranger, spending a fair number of nights in their guest room. Still, they got by. Abby’s life, too, was perhaps wanting. Evenings she came home alone to her quiet apartment offered a paler sort of comfort than they had for so many years prior. The odd evening out with a friend or acquaintance, a casual romantic interest, was now a distractable affair. Abby found herself unable to sink so deeply into whatever moment she was living. Instead, her mind wandering and drifted and imagined futures that would never be. 

They’d never said it outright. Words would put too fine a point on the matter, and one might prick oneself upon such a point, casting down a curse. Or worse, a fantasy. The fact of their mutual attraction—their subtle, unspoken recognition of it—hung in the air about them. It was palpable. And not only to them. 

Abby found that when she visited Carol’s home, chance encounters with Harge brought about a new kind of vitriol. She was familiar with the ways of society warfare—the prolonged looks and heavy silences that, when translated, asked you to kindly get the hell out; the pointed questions, ever barbed, that dug into your mind despite being said through a smile; the little moves of possession—those were ones that irked her the most. Where Harge would sidle up to Carol, slip a hand about her waist even as she would edge away. The way he would draw Rindy close and lock eyes with Abby over her shoulder. 

Abby couldn’t imagine that Harge understood the dynamic between Carol and her. She doubted very much that he had sensed romantic feelings or suspected Carol of any hint of lesbianism. He was much too proud for that. It was enough that Carol wanted to be around Abby far more than she wanted to be around him—and that she no longer made any show of hiding that fact. It was, too, the warmth and closeness they enjoyed when they spent time together, even without the fanfare of sex. Harge’s mouth would thin, his eyes would grow cold as steel, and he would make every effort to intervene on their happiness. 

Those were the only moments when Abby felt true irritation at their circumstances. If she were a man—oh, the scandal—she would clock Harge right in the jaw and, without hesitation, sweep Carol and Rindy away. They would go somewhere new, somewhere distant. Where no one knew them. Their reputations would be shot, but they could live happily that way. The three of them. As it was, well. There were few places to run where the law wouldn’t find you. And god knows what they did to women of “unsound mind.” 

And, really, weren’t they happy here? In this in-between space of togetherness? She thought so. It was an odd way to live, perhaps, but not all that bad when you got down to it. 

Abby looked across the kitchen at Carol in her apron standing before the stove. She brought a wooden, sauce-filled spoon down to Rindy’s mouth. The little girl smacked her lips together, clapping and declaring it perfection. Carol chuckled, withdrew the spoon, and looked over at Abby, her eyes clear as day and full of gray light. 

Yes, what could be better than this?


	19. The Storm of the Century

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love it was that drove them forth. Love that brought them home again. Love hardened their hands against the oar and heated their sinews against the rain. The journeys they made were beyond common sense; who leaves the hearth for the open sea? especially without a compass, especially in winter, especially alone. What you risk reveals what you value. In the presence of love, hearth and quest become one.” – Jeanette Winterson, _Written on the Body_

_**November 24, 1950** _

They had been driving for about three hours when the storm broke. At first, it was just flurries—little inconsequential wisps of snow falling from the sky and drifting around the car as it sped down the road. Abby had mentioned it to Carol in passing. Said the snow was a nice surprise. A good way to cap off the evening. As they continued along, however, flurries turned to steady snowfall turned to sheets of blustering winds smacking against the sides of the car. The air outside was filled with howling and whistling. Snow corkscrewed around them from every direction. Little clumps of ice tapped against the windows. Abby slowed the car, creeping along the road over the fast-whitening asphalt. Her eyes squinted through curtains of white made all the more solid by her headlights. 

New Jersey, full of once-familiar roads she thought she could navigate with her eyes shut, became a blank slate of snow and storm. 

Above them, the sky, already dark, had an eerie green and yellow hue to it. Abby could see the sickly yellows peeking around black-gray clouds that grouped together along the horizon lines and drifted indistinctly across the dome above them, pouring white. 

Below was no better. The roads put up what fight they could, but snow had begun to stick. It gathered in small waves and patches of icy slick. Abby’s car skidded over one such patch, and she heard Carol suck in a frightened gasp of air. 

She slowed further, maddened by the flying snow that well outstripped her on its descent to the ground. She wanted to speed, to race ahead of the snow. To try and edge out just in front of the storm line. If she could just get through it… But she knew better than to gamble against ice. So, instead, she let up on the gas and allowed the car to sluggishly crawl up the road as the wind continued its hammering wails. 

“God, Abby, I don’t know. It’s really bad out there.” Abby chanced a look at Carol. The younger woman was rigid, one hand gripping the door, the other laying on the dashboard. Her torso, straight as a board, was pressed as far back as she could manage into the cushion of the passenger seat. Her eyes were glued to the vague expanse of white snow before them. 

Abby grit her teeth and refreshed her grip on the steering wheel. “I know! I know. I just don’t—" 

“Does your mother still live—" 

Abby coughed out a laugh, “No.” She looked over at Carol again—Carol with her eyebrows raised, with her expression exasperated and scolding. Abby groaned, “No, Carol. I’m not—" 

Carol made an impatient noise, “Well it’s that or we pull over and freeze to death.” She looked at Abby pointedly. “What will it be?” 

Abby chewed on the inside of her cheek. Carol was right. They were near her mother’s house. It was the smart move to head there. A five-minute drive—ten, perhaps, at the rate they were going. They certainly wouldn’t make it all the way to Carol’s let alone into the city. 

“Goddammit,” Abby said in a low voice, edging the car over what she thought was one lane so that she could take the next turn. “Fine. Okay. Yes. We’ll go… We’ll go to my mother’s.” She sighed. “She’s not going to like this.” 

Carol let out a wry chuckle, “Oh please. She’ll be thrilled, are you kidding? You coming for a surprise visit?” 

Abby grumbled and chose to redouble her focus on the road’s nearly invisible lines. 

By the time they had made their turns and crept along the countryside to Abby’s childhood home, the car’s tires were in sorry shape. Every minute or so, they would catch in a patch of the powdery snow, stalling them. They made their progress in a series of lurches, inching along through short bursts of movement. On either side of the road, where the grass grew about a foot high, tall banks of white had begun to form. They framed the road, fell in on it. Abby took care not to get too close to the sides, favoring instead to swerve her way along the median. One tire caught in a drift meant they would be walking the rest of the way. As it was, the car had already grown unbearably cold. 

Carol was breathing heavily but evenly in an intent, decisive way beside her. She had not spoken since Abby agreed on their destination. A small part of Abby’s brain left untouched by terror worried after her, but she couldn’t focus on it. She just needed to get them around this last corner, up the drive, and into the warmth of the house. 

They made it as far as the driveway. Turning into it, the car caught in a dip filled with a bank of snow. Abby pressed the gas, but, as she expected, all she heard was the whirring of the wheel as it slid against the slippery mound. At least the car was technically in the drive, not dangling onto the road beyond. Though, Abby thought, it didn’t look as if anyone would be driving anywhere in the foreseeable future. Not with these roads. 

She turned to Carol, offering an apologetic glance. The younger woman nodded sharply, letting out a shivering breath, and gathering her coat about her. 

They pushed hard against their doors, swinging them open with effort against the sheets of snow rushing about them. On the ground, it already reached well above Abby’s ankle. She swore, her feet stinging and soaking through from the icy wet. She hopped through the snow, hurrying to the trunk. Her fingers fumbled with the key, but she managed to open it, pull out their bags, and shut the car after a minute. Handing Carol her bag—another sharp nod in return—they trudged as quickly as they could on their numb feet up the drive to the Gerhard’s residence. 

As they approached the door, Abby’s nerves began to prickle. Cold as she was, the adrenaline that still rushing through her mingled with pangs of anxiety and worry. She became acutely aware of the sound of snow crunching beneath her feet. Of the way the door knocker sounded so tinny and muted against the howling wind. She hit it again for good measure. 

A light appeared in the foyer. Abby shivered and breathed out a shaky, “Oh god. Here we go.” 

Margaret’s face appeared in the glass of the window to the left of the door, squinting out at them. As she saw Abby, her expression turned to shock. She hurried over to the door, unlocking and swinging it open. 

“Oh my goodness. What are you—Come in, come in. Quickly, now. Keep out all that cold.” She looked them over with warm concern. “You poor things are just covered in—My god, is that Carol? It’s so good to see you dear, but I have to—I didn’t expect—what are you doing here?” 

Abby blinked as the bite of the storm turned into a sharper pain from the cold leaving her limbs. She nodded, “I’m sorry to just barge in. We were on the road, and the storm—” 

“Yes. Yes, I’m glad you came. I can’t imagine—stuck out in this mess? How horrible.” 

Carol spared Abby a light smile. She looked tired. Or perhaps she, too, was just suffering from the pins and needles erupting across her skin. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and a little red. She sniffed. Abby wanted suddenly very much to kiss her. Right there, in the foyer. She looked away, shrugging off her scarf. 

Margaret continued to fuss over them. She wore a long white robe and thick wool socks. After they had removed their soaked shoes, she pushed them in front of her into the living room where a large fire suffused the room with the most blissful warm. As they went, she tugged off their coats and pulled away their bags. 

“You girls stand by the fire now. Get warm. There you go. I’ll be right back. One moment.” 

She disappeared into the foyer. Abby could hear her making her way up the stairs. She held her hands out over the fire, sighing heavily. “Oh my god.” 

Beside her, Carol nodded, “Agreed.” She looked at Abby, “I’m glad you listened to me.” 

Abby chortled and muttered archly, “Yeah. Well. Every once in a while, you have a good idea.” 

Carol shot her a look of mock offence and knocked against her shoulder with her own. 

Behind them, footsteps on the stairs. Abby tried her restrain her smile. There was something odd about being back here with Carol. Being tended to and fussed over by her mother. It felt juvenile to stand there in their wet clothing as they had been told. Whispering jokes back and forth to one another. Trying to “behave.” The more the absurdity struck her, the more Abby felt a desire to collapse in laughter. To fall back on one of the couches and playact a life left decades ago. 

Margaret reentered the room carrying two more robes. She hurried over to them. “Put these on. They’ll get you warm. How are you feeling? Better? Come sit. I’ll get you some wine. God knows, coming out of this weather—I can’t imagine—you must need it.” 

She picked up two glasses from a glossy cherrywood bar against the right wall. It was framed by two tall windows. The sheer curtains of one had been pulled back. Through it, Abby could see the churning gray of the snow against a black background of night. 

“Oh, Abigail, dear.” Margaret called to them as she reached for the bottle of wine already laying atop the bar table. She spoke quickly, her voice jumping around tones of high lilting affectation and low muttering asides. “I’m so sorry—I really hadn’t expected… Well, I just had the sheets in the guest room taken out for cleaning. Your room’s fine, of course, but I’m afraid, Carol, dear, we don’t have another room ready for you. I can’t imagine you’d be very comfortable down here. You could stay in Abby’s room, of course,” She turned, two glasses of wine in either hand and presented them to the women. 

Abby looked at her in shock. “Don’t we have other sheets?” 

Margaret shot her daughter a look. “Oh, and I’m supposed to, what, ask Carol to kindly make up her own room? Don’t be rude.” 

A smattering of ice fell against the window outside. Around them, the lights in the room flickered, then shut off completely. 

“Oh damnit. This is just awful,” Margaret walked over to the fire, adjusting the grate so it hung open just a crack. The fire, being the only light source in the room, sent a wavering glow across everything. Shadows dashed about. Abby took a drink from her glass of wine, closing her eyes to embrace the warmth that spread throughout her chest. 

“I’m sure it will be fine. I don’t mind staying down here. Really.” 

Abby opened her eyes, glanced at Carol. Carol took a sip of wine, holding her gaze for a beat. 

“Nonsense. Abigail, that bed is enormous. It’s just one night. We’ll see what we can do tomorrow if needs be. But you’re not sleeping on the couch, Carol. Not in my house. You can stay with Abby in her room.” Margaret looked at them sternly, her eyebrows raised in a challenge. “Is that clear?” 

Abby and Carol nodded into their wine glasses. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby saw Carol take a very long drink. 

Margaret nodded curtly. “Good. Now that’s settled. Oh, I wish the power hadn’t gone. I had hoped to read tonight.” 

* * *

The wine did wonders for their nerves. Carol leaned back into the couch, aware that her clothing beneath the robe had dampened the fabric in some patches. She wanted to worry about it—to feel badly for getting water on the couch—but she couldn’t manage it. She was just so _cold_. Her mind buzzed about, half numbed by the wine and half awakened by the adrenaline from that catastrophe of a ride. 

Carol had grown used to experiencing a modicum of fear any time she rode with Abby. Abby preferred speed to smoothness when it came to driving. She always got them where they needed to go, and, thusfar, they’d always arrived safely. Not a scratch in sight. On the record of success alone, Carol found herself feeling relatively safe in the passenger seat of Abby’s car. Usually. Tonight… well, tonight she had actually worried. 

It struck Carol that they might have died out there on the road. One bad turn, one blown tire, and they would have been stranded. Probably would have frozen to death in no time. She shivered, took another sip, and glanced about the room. 

It was so strange to be here. Strange and lovely. Carol had had so many good memories in this house. She had loved this tall living room with its magnificent windows and huge fireplace. The bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling on the far wall. The way the room should have been cold and daunting but instead was warm. Comfortable. Inviting. 

And then, of course, there was Abby. Abby who sat beside her, looking anywhere else. Clutching her glass of wine like it was a life raft or some other precious, crucial thing. 

Carol had seen her face when Margaret suggested they share a room. A bed. She knew that she, like Carol, would be thinking of little else besides that future moment when they would slip next to one another under covers. When they would be closer than they had ever been. Alone. 

She took another drink. Light flickered around the bell of the glass and across the surface of her wine. 

“So. My dear, how _are_ you? Abby’s told me so little, I’m afraid. I hear that you are married.” 

Carol swallowed down the wine quickly, wincing as the drink left her throat dry. “Yes,” she managed, offering a smile. “Harge. Harge Aird.” She wanted so badly to look over at Abby. She could feel her eyes on her. “You, ah, actually met him once. A long time ago.” 

Margaret’s brow furrowed as she puzzled over it. Then, her face brightened. “That lovely boy in the park? Oh, how wonderful. He was so charming. And quite good looking,” she added with a wink and a playful smile. 

Carol felt Abby shift beside her. She nodded. “Yes, he is.” 

“Well, that’s just lovely. What does he do?” 

“He’s in real estate. Insurance.” 

“A promising field. How about that.” She smiled over at Abby, inviting her daughter to share in the joy of it all. Carol followed her gaze, and—pursing her lips against a laugh—saw Abby’s jaw shift around a thin smile. “Any children?” 

Carol turned back to Margaret. It took a moment for the words to make any sense in her mind. She was still dwelling on Abby’s face, Abby’s irritation, Abby’s light jealousy—a look that had been appearing more and more often these days. Carol found herself worried by it. And pleased. Was it horrible to feel pleased about it? 

She cleared her throat, glanced down at the wine, and nodded to Margaret. “Yes. I have a daughter. Rindy.” 

Little Rindy. Her perfect girl. 

Margaret sighed happily. “A daughter! How old…?” 

Carol smiled—genuinely this time. “Eight. She just had her birthday.” 

“It was a great party,” came Abby’s voice beside her. Carol blinked, glanced over at her. Abby did not meet her gaze. 

Margaret hummed. “I remember some of _your_ parties.” She chuckled, sipped some wine. “I remember you two running around in the yard—this was before you were in school, of course. You came home just in time for dinner covered head to toe in mud. Completely filthy! I very nearly had a heart attack. I remember turning to William and saying, ‘That’s it! We’re never letting her out there again!’ But, he never could say no to you, and you were right back out there the next day, chasing rabbits and riding imaginary horses.” She hummed again, shook her head lightly, and took another sip. 

Abby smiled a small, sad smile. Carol looked at her—she couldn’t help herself. Her eyes wanted nothing else. 

She had no memory of that birthday. Everything she could recall from those first years were scattered patches of colors and sound. Far as she knew, Abby had been in her life from the beginning and had been causing the most delightful havoc all along the way. 

“You know,” Margaret said after a moment, “It really is funny how you girls got to being friends again. I’m glad to see it. You were always so close. Then, one day, nothing. Not a word. It broke my heart to think of you two estranged. Well. I suppose we have the good Mr. Aird to thank for how everything’s turned out, don’t we?” 

Abby tipped her head, shot Carol an impetuous look, and said, “We sure do.” 

Chimes tolled through the air—one after another under eleven had sounded. Margaret sighed, and set her glass down on a small table beside her. “It’s getting late. I think I’ll turn in.” She stood with a soft groan and walked a few steps to a cabinet nearby to pull out some candlesticks and matches. Lighting the wick of one candle, she turned back to them. “Take a candle or two up to your room so you don’t kill yourselves on the stairs, would you?” She looked at them for a moment. The light played across her face, deepening her features. Carol couldn’t make out her expression. “I really am sorry about the bed situation. I suppose it’s a good thing we bought Abby that double. I’d thought it unnecessary at the time, but it just goes to show. You never know.” She smiled at them again, “Do get some sleep. You both look exhausted. And never mind the glasses. I’ll get them in the morning.” With one small wave, Margaret turned and walked through the doorway leaving Abby and Carol alone in that large, quiet room. 

They sat like that for several minutes—quiet, clutching their glasses and exchanging the odd, darting glance in the dark. The fire was fast dwindling, leaving more and more of the room in shadows. 

When Carol sipped the last of her wine, feeling the sharp spice of it on the tip of her tongue, she sighed. Beside her, Abby shivered. 

Carol looked at her—fully this time, without darting away. Abby’s posture was drawn in, as if she were trying to make herself smaller, less visible. Carol wondered whether such a stance had more to do with the cold or being left alone in a room with her. 

She cleared her throat gently. Abby looked up. “Should we,” Carol glanced around, her eyes lingering on the glowing grate for a beat, “Should we go upstairs?” Her heart caught in her throat; her throat felt dry as a desert. She shifted in her seat. A damp patch of clothing asserted itself with a sudden wave of cold on her thigh. 

She didn’t want to look at Abby. She couldn’t bear it. The words felt like a proposition. She wanted them to feel light, carefree. A simple question—like, are you tired? Or, would you like to go to sleep? But there was nothing simple about it. All roads led to the same conclusion. And that conclusion was terrifying. 

After a moment, Abby just nodded. “Yeah,” she added quietly. She stood, made her way over to the fireplace, and grabbed a poker from a nearby stand as Carol lit some candles. She proceeded to push around what remained of the logs in the hearth until they fell apart into embers, until those embers had been snuffed out in the ash. Then, replacing the poker, she pushed the grate closed, shut the flue, and made her way back to Carol, dusting her hands off as she went. 

They walked out of the living room silently, pausing only to grab their small bags in the foyer before heading up the stairs. It was a laughable gesture. They’d hardly packed anything. It was meant to be a day trip. They were meant to be home by now. 

Even with the carpet runners muffling their footsteps, Carol felt that each step they took was thunderous. The howling outside was no match for it. No storm could compare. 

At the top of the stairs, they turned to the left. Carol couldn’t help sparing a glance down the other end of the hallway where Abby’s mother’s room sat. She wondered what Margaret really thought of them showing up together, if she had any reservations about their reunion. She didn’t seem to. Her joy seemed genuine. And she hadn’t mentioned the letter once to them. But wasn’t it too big a thing to forget? Carol didn’t know. 

They crossed the threshold to Abby’s room sooner than Carol had expected to. She paused a few steps in, struck by the familiarity of the space. It looked smaller than she’d remembered. Paler, too. Like in Abby’s absence a little bit of the life that had so illuminated the space had waned. Left to dust and empty air. Their candles offered little respite from the dark, though a softer, bluer sort of dark fell in from the unshrouded windows on two of the walls. Carol felt wrapped up in that darkness. It made the space feel tighter, cushioned, held in. More intimate. Abby shut the door behind her, and Carol held her breath. 

Abby rushed into the room, ready to find a thousand things to occupy her hands. She turned to Carol suddenly, “Do you have a preference?” Carol blinked at her. Abby glanced at the bed, cleared her throat, looked back to Carol, “I mean, do you—which side do you…” 

Carol’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, either side is fine,” she said in a rush. 

Abby nodded and took her bag over to the far wall where, in front of a window, there was a table. She placed it on top and set aside her candle. Unzipping the bag, she began to search its contents. She swore, turned her head back a little to say, “I didn’t pack for this. I don’t have—I don’t have anything.” She turned, let loose a frustrated sigh, and ran a hand through her hair, pushing strands over the top of her head. 

Carol watched her, tried to make her voice sound calming, soothing. “Neither of us did. We didn’t know this was going to happen.” She took a few steps toward Abby. The flame of her candle pulled back toward her. “But it’s just one night. We can figure things out in the morning.” 

Abby shot her a look. “One night? Did you see the roads? We’re not going anywhere. Tonight. Tomorrow. Hell, the whole weekend maybe.” 

Carol’s stomach squirmed at the thought. Abby turned, walked a few steps, crossing in front of the bed, and opened her wardrobe absently. “Oh my god,” she said. “There’s just… nothing here. I—a few scarves. That’s all I have.” She turned back toward Carol. “What are we going to _wear_?” 

Carol looked around the room. “Well. We have the robes.” She grimaced at her own suggestion. It was better than nothing, but it wasn’t ideal. The cloth was wet in places from their clothing underneath. It would be uncomfortable. Not to mention… other things. 

Carol glanced back at Abby to see her frowning. “I… guess,” she said finally, her voice riddled with uncertainty. 

She tried to sound bright, “We can lay out our clothes. Let them dry overnight.” 

Abby’s face was indecipherable, a blank mask in the shadows. “So, we’d be in _just_ the robes.” 

Carol opened her mouth to reply, thought better of it, and nodded. 

Abby took in a breath and started walking toward the left side of the bed. “Oh.” 

Carol tilted her head, “It’s not ideal, but… I don’t see what other—” 

“No, you’re right. Of course. It’s… I’m just… Um.” She picked up a pillow from the bed and smoothed the fabric of its case. 

“Yeah, I know,” Carol said. “I—yes.” 

They hadn’t spoken about it. Their… feelings for one another. Not out loud. Carol had thought it was better that way. Things could stay normal, or very nearly normal anyway. They were adults, weren’t they? They could control their baser desires. But… this. This was something else. She had not planned for this. 

Abby threw the pillow back onto the bed. “So… Do we just…” She looked up at Carol, her eyes begging for some sort of direction or perhaps complicity. Carol swallowed thickly around the knot in her throat. 

“Maybe you can… over there. And I’ll be over here. We can turn round and be done with it.” 

This was stupid. It was absurd. They were grown women. They had gotten changed plenty of times in the locker rooms of the tennis courts. They had stayed together in hotel rooms. They had known each other for most of their lives, for god’s sake. Why was this so _awkward_? 

“Right. Okay.” Abby’s response was clipped. Her jaw was set tightly. She turned so that she faced the wall, paused, and called to Carol over her shoulder. “So. Now, then?” 

Carol started. Right. Oh, right. She turned, placing her candle hastily upon a bedside table to her left and faced the wide bay window and bench. “Yeah. Now.” 

Rustling fabric had never sounded so loud. 

Carol shivered as she untied the robe around her and let it fall to the floor beside her feet. She felt badly about that, paused to consider laying it out on the bed behind her. But that would mean turning, even if only slightly, and turning was dangerous. The areas of damp on her clothing caught the air and abandoned any warmth they had collected from her skin. She hastened to undo buttons and clasps, hurrying along the task with fumbling fingers. She could hear behind her small sighs and sounds of irritation from Abby just above the lingering sounds of the storm outside. Ice that still tapped and wind that still howled. When Carol had finished undressing, she reached down for the robe again, grateful to sheath herself in _something_ once more. Her skin was covered in goosebumps. She pulled the edges of the robe tightly around herself. 

“I’m—” Carol closed her eyes, feeling foolish again. Her voice was so small, wavering even in that single syllable. “Are you ready?” 

“Yes.” 

Carol turned, peeking over her shoulder at Abby, only to see the other woman doing much the same. She couldn’t help but laugh. “This is ridiculous, isn’t it?” 

Abby rolled her eyes, though she looked marginally less anxious. “Yeah. It’s awful. Why are we doing this?” 

“I don’t know. It just seems…” Her eyes slid to the side of the room, drifting off with her voice in tow. 

Abby nodded, took a deep breath, and stooped to grab her clothing off the floor. Carol spied a flash of leg. She cleared her throat and made to pick up her own things. 

Walking around the bed, Abby took her clothes over to the window seat. She began to lay them out, carefully and neatly. She motioned for Carol to do the same. 

As she smoothed her shirt and pulled its seams taught, Carol glanced up—out, through the window into the night beyond. She could just barely make out a tall white shape in the distance, blurred and distorted by clouds of falling snow churning through the air. Her old house. How curious. Someone else lived there now, she supposed. She wondered if they, too, ran about the lawns dreaming up a thousand possible futures. 

So much had changed. _So much_. She could never have imagined such a life. Would her younger self be proud? Disappointed? She couldn’t fathom an answer. Far as she knew, she had never thought much about her future. Everything had always just been in the moment. Each bright and brilliant second of it. Each laugh. Each adventure. 

Carol straightened her back, offering one final tug on the hem of her skirt, and turned to look at Abby. 

Abby met her gaze and held it. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She just… looked. 

In a way, Carol couldn’t help but feel like everything had led them to this moment. Her mind felt so utterly still all of the sudden. Her hands, possibly the whole of her being, trembled. She knew deep in her bones that she wanted to be here—as terrifying and accidental and _absurd_ as it all was, _this_ was where life had brought her. 

She remembered reading somewhere about a scientist who thought the universe began with a tiny dot of concentrated energy. Just a speck. No bigger than the head of a pin. It was impossible to imagine. And breathtaking to think about—energy released. Growing and growing and expanding into everything. She remembered wondering whether it was loud, that expansion. Whether it was some kind of destined thing. Provoked by God or some force out there in the ether. She couldn’t conceive of such a thing just… happening. There had to be a reason, right? Some thread of destiny or _something_. 

She felt that now. In a different way. How could it possibly be that they had ended up _here_? In this room. On this night. With no clothes. No anything. No way to escape one another. Having almost _died_ to get here. Having fallen apart and reformed again and again and again. 

Didn’t that have to mean something? Were they not, too, spinning around that little dot of concentrated energy, waiting for it to explode? 

In that moment, Carol made her decision. 

She moved quickly and calmly, two short steps toward Abby, closing the distance between them. She trembled, but it was to a rhythm that propelled her forward. That urged her on. She paused, but it was only for a fraction of a second. A blink. Like the head of a pin. Then, she kissed her. 

It was so quiet. It was so loud. 

The wind howled and the ice tapped and her heart drummed—and their breath cut through it all like it was magnified by the thousands. 

Abby pulled back. Her eyes darted over Carol’s. “What are you doing?” she asked in a whisper. 

Water gray fell over brown, and Carol’s lips twitched into the sketch of a smile as she replied finally, “What I want.” 

What followed was a dance. Their kiss deepened, took them spinning away from the open landscape of the room’s middle to the solidity of the closed bedroom door. Carol gasped when she felt her back come up against the wooden surface, but she felt grateful for it, too. For in that moment, the edges of herself felt wilder, blurrier than they ever had before. Her hands grasped the cloth of Abby’s robe and held tightly, bracing herself for impact. For the creation of the universe. 

She was scared. Of course she was scared. No small part of her felt as if she had consigned to dive headfirst off some great cliff only to realize she did not know how to fly. 

She shuddered as Abby’s hand reached around her waist and pulled her close. 

“Are you okay?” came a whisper in her ear. 

Yes. No. Who the hell knows? What did that word even mean when every single atom of your being was come undone? When up was down and sides knew no territory? She settled for a quick nod. 

“We can stop,” Abby’s voice was so low. A murmuration of textures and sensations were held within that voice. God, Carol loved that voice. 

“No,” she said, her own voice cracked through. “I don’t—” She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and tried to settle some of her swirling parts. Enough, at least, to say, “I don’t want to stop.” Her eyes opened to see Abby poised, watching her. “I don’t,” she said again. 

Abby kept her watch and reached a hand between them, pulling loose the ties that held Carol’s robe. Her hand ran flatly along Carol’s torso—the long smooth line of skin, the faint ridge of her ribs, the soft underside of her breast—and let her mind wonder at the wild pleasure of touching Carol there. So free a gesture. Something she had dreamt of on so many nights. And this, this simple thing—to touch. How long had she imagined what it might be like to touch her? 

Carol gasped and shivered and allowed her body to be guided, moving again—dancing again—away from the door to the bed. She arched her back as the robe was pulled away from her body, as her body was covered, instead with a parade of kisses and touches—both gentle and not. 

She was a land laid bare—roving hills and hidden burrows. Abby ran over them all. The clefts and dips of her. The staircase of her spine, the peninsula of her clavicle. Those wings called scapulae perched so lightly on either shoulder. The pebbled nipples—rockrose blossoms. The forests below. Brooks and eddies and fault lines. Abby voyaged across her, and as she did, she drew within her mind a map most beautiful. A cartography most divine. 

Carol felt awash in the fluid and mesmerizing blur of their dance. Such curiosity, such interest, such lovely experimentations. Provoking sighs and little sounds from each new touch. Almost intolerable in their intensity, giving rise to expressions of pleasures so acute they mimicked gestures of pain. She reveled in the surprise of it—to press and caress and taste the odd mirror of a body, so like hers in its most general outline but so unlike it in a thousand shimmering ways. 

Abby’s mind reeled. It was astounding and simple and perfect and everything she had ever hoped it would be. She was happy. She wanted nothing more than to spend each waking second of her life lingering here and here and here and here on Carol’s body. And yet, even through that haze of happiness, some small part of her would emerge every minute or so to pose careful, tentative questions: what did this mean? what _did_ Carol want? had this changed everything? anything? She would push away those thoughts. Not now, not here, she would think, and dip down once more into the that blissful fervor of movement and touch and sound. She would redouble her attentions, painting Carol over with greater and more precise strokes, placing her lips and teeth and tongue around and around until she all but consumed her. 

She was a cord stretched taut—held, tense and unbearably still. Frozen in the thick of it but for the tremors that rang throughout her. Ripples cascading out, further and further. Reaching so far that Carol was sure they brushed against the walls—such was the force of their earthquakes. There was nothing gentle about this creation. It reached right into the core of her, shook loose every loadbearing wall of her being, and whispered there above the rubble: _Love_. 

* * *

* * *

Abby’s eyes fluttered open and were met with so much improbable light. Images of the night before swam through her mind, all dark and blue and flickering. She breathed. Blinked. And took in the room around her, newly revealed by the light pouring through the windows. 

The first thing she noticed was a candle. Or, more precisely, what used to be a candle. A melted lump of wax petrified in waves and curls that stretched up around a candlestick sat upon her bedside table. Abby frowned at it, trying to remember having put a candle there. She could not. 

She propped herself up on one elbow, looking beyond the candle off toward the window. Lines of clothing lay sleepily on the bench below. Pressed flatly against the glass was a slanting drift of snow. A sculpture sung into shape from the wind and cold. Looking at it from within the room, she could see little rings—waves of ice that spoke the tale of the storm’s progress like the rings of a tree recorded its life. 

She peered at it, tracing the lines that sloped from one side of the window to the next, trying to imagine how her own story would look in such a shape. Rings and rings of events. Time folding back on itself. 

She shivered. 

The cold of the room stood in a sharp contrast with the warm of the bed. Abby stretched her legs and sighed. 

Finally, she turned to look at Carol. Reluctantly, almost, as if prolonging the moment would make the effect sweeter. Holding onto the want, the desire to see her—that alone brought a kind of pleasure. 

But there she was. Sleeping quietly, hair fanned out across her pillow. A loose lock fallen across her cheek. One hand was curled up near her face— _her face_. She looked so peaceful. So still. Abby wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her look so still. 

She reached out a hand, gently hooking the loose strand of hair with her forefinger and guiding it away from Carol’s face, tucking it behind her ear. 

Carol stirred. She made a small noise of waking, frowned, and blinked her eyes open. 

“Hi,” Abby said, her voice full of morning gravel. She felt suddenly so meek. Nervous. She wasn’t sure what to say to her, how to act. She found herself wanting keenly to return to the night before, to when they had been so intertwined, so connected. 

“Hi,” Carol returned, her voice impossibly soft, her eyes locking onto Abby for a long moment. She opened her mouth again as if to speak but stopped herself. Closed her mouth. Looked around. Perhaps she, too, felt at a loss for words. Perhaps she was embarrassed to find herself in bed with Abby. Perhaps she regretted— 

“Do you still have those cookies?” Abby looked at her, frowning. Carol tilted her head and sat up a little, pulling the sheet with her. Her hair was mussed from sleep and sex. It hung about her face in stringy waves. “Do you remember that tin you kept in the window seat? With the cookies. I was just thinking about that.” 

Abby’s frown smoothed out. “Oh. God, I… don’t think so.” 

Carol hummed a sound of vague disappointment. “Shame,” she muttered, the corner of her mouth quirking. 

Abby watched her. Every time she thought she knew what to expect with her, Carol played a wild card. She shook her head and fell back onto the bed chuckling. She sighed a happy, drawn out sigh, “Do you ever just think to yourself: How the hell is this my life?” 

Carol smiled. “Many times. Especially over the past few years.” 

Abby stared up at the ceiling for a moment, feeling a giddiness creep into her bones. She wanted to run across the snowy lawns with bare feet. To sing as loudly as she could. To laugh uncontrollably until her sides felt that they would split open. She flung out an arm, grabbed a pillow and pressed it to her face before mumbling incoherent sounds into its fabric. 

Carol frowned around a light laugh, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak linen. Do you want to try that again?” 

Abby groaned, pushed away the pillow, and glanced over at Carol. She spoke in a dramatic whisper feigning scandal, “I said, I can’t believe I slept with Carol Kent.” 

A nervous laugh. Carol curled her legs under her and adjusted the sheets she had tucked around her chest. “You did,” she said evenly. She glanced up at Abby, “And… was that—Is that a good thing?” Abby looked at her, a frown beginning to form on her brow. Carol hastened to continue, “I mean, was it… okay?” She looked away, favoring instead to focus on a fold of fabric pinched between her fingers. 

Abby held the silence for a moment with a soft smile. It was sweet, Carol’s worry. A little sad, too. She had seen Carol deal with nerves before, but this felt different. Differently vulnerable. Carol was no stranger to sex. She had a kid; she had a husband; she had a life that she’d lived up to this point. But it occurred to Abby for the first time that, perhaps, she’d only ever slept with Harge before now. 

She ran her eyes over her hands, worrying the tip of her index fingernail. When she spoke, she did so quietly, with as much earnestness as she could manage. “It was everything, Carol. Of course it was.” 

Carol nodded but that nervous look did not go away. She still seemed unsettled, unsure. 

Abby moved closer to her, running a hand over her sheet-covered stomach. “How do you feel? About this… us. All of it.” 

* * *

Carol looked down at Abby, reveled lightly in the warmth and weight of Abby’s arm draped across her. The comfort it brought. 

How did she feel? She felt overwhelmed and scared and calm and happy and confused and anxious and light and like all the parts of her that had previously bound her together had rearranged overnight, shifting into new places, holding her more loosely than before. She felt a buoyancy at the center of herself that frightened her. She thought she might fly off, floating away from the world and the ground and any sense of stability. She was unmoored, a ship adrift. It was thrilling and terrifying and indescribably uncomfortable. 

Abby was watching her, tilting her head, waiting for a response. Carol smiled around her discomfort, her confusion. “I… don’t know how to put it into words.” 

Abby made a pensive sound—short and gentle. She drew back a little. Her eyes drifted over Carol, lingering on her lips, her hair, her eyes. After a minute, she said in that still-quiet voice, “I’d like to kiss you.” 

Carol’s smile warmed. “Alright,” she said lightly, shrugging a little. 

Abby hummed. “Tell me,” she said. 

Carol frowned, “What?” 

“Tell me to kiss you.” 

A charge ran up Carol’s spine and over her shoulders. She tried very hard to hold still despite wanting, madly, to shake the sensation from her bones. Quietly, she spoke. So quietly that the words very nearly disintegrated before leaving her lips. Like the thin, tenuous membrane of a bubble, they shone iridescent in the air before, in a blink, vanishing whole: “Kiss me.” 

And Abby did. 

And they tumbled together into the openings of another dance, one less fervent, less desperate than the night before. Carol took in the sight of Abby, wondering at the shape of her, speechless at the newfound pleasure of _seeing_ her clearly in the light of day. She was startled by the sight of her. Startled, too, by the sight of herself. 

A sound struck through their dance—a door closing somewhere in the hallway beyond. They froze, locked eyes, and waited, listening as hard as they could for any hint of trouble. Carol doubted Margaret would be able to forget _this_ if she were to stumble into the room, no matter how hard she might want to. 

The thought of Mrs. Gerhard’s appalled face sent Carol into a fit of hushed laughter. She felt like a schoolgirl again. Party to Abby’s mischief. She knew getting caught was a real threat. She knew that. But, still, the thought of sitting in actual fear of Margaret entering the room and _scolding them_ was too much for her to bear. She turned and pressed her face into a pillow, her shoulders shaking with laughter. 

Abby hissed, “What are you laughing about? Be quiet or she’ll hear you.” Abby pushed herself off the bed, walking quietly toward the door. “I do not want her coming in here.” She pressed an ear against the wood, listened for a long moment, and said, finally, with a sigh, “I think she’s gone downstairs. Carol, I’m serious. We should get dressed.” 

Reluctantly, they pulled on their clothing from the day before, combed through their hair, washed their faces, and tried their best to remove any evidence of the night’s activities. Then, with long looks and quickening pulses, they opened the door and headed down to breakfast. 

Outside, snow continued to fall in fat little puffs like lazy clouds.


End file.
